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ANNA LELAND 

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NEW YORK : 

J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. 

BOSTON:— PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 


CINCINNATI : — H. W. DERBY. 


1856 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
J. C. DERBY, 

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In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for tho Southern District of New York. 

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W H. Tinson, Stereotyper. 


Pudney <fc Russell, Printers. 


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PREFACE. 


In these days of many books, multitudes of tales are told, whose 
only foundation is in the fancy and imagination of their writers. 

How often after the perusal of these does the reader feel that 
Romance is, after all, less strange than Reality, and that from his 
own history or his own knowledge he might weave a tissue of facts 
which should be more interesting, and even more startling, than 
these airy structures. 

To the indulgence of such a feeling may be ascribed the origin of 
this unpretending volume. 





























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CONTENTS 


PASS 


CHAPTER I. 

MY mother’s death 13 

CHAPTER H. 

“ EARTH TO EARTH, AND DUST TO DUST ” 16 

CHAPTER HI. 

THE FIRST HOME AND THE SECOND 21 

* ✓ 

CHAPTER IV. 

ATHERTON 26 

CHAPTER V. 

THE NEW MOTHER 80 

CHAPTER VI. 

TEARS AND SMILES 33 

CHAPTER VH. 

HOME AGAIN — RUPERT 39 

CHAPTER VIH. 

PINE MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY BROOK 44 

CHAPTER IX. 

GRAND PARENTS 63 


CONTENTS. 


yiii 

PAGB 

CHAPTER X. 

BROTHERS, SISTERS AND COUSINS 69 

CHAPTER XI. 

DREAMS AND REALITIES 69 

CHAPTER XH. 

* DOWN BELOW ” . 74 

• CHAPTER XHI. 

A LITTLE LOVE AND A LITTLE TROUBLE 79 

CHAPTER XVI. 

COUNTRY SCENES 86 

CHAPTER XV. 

SUITORS 91 

CHAPTER XVI. 

SOBER REALITIES 98 

CHAPTER XVH. 

HOME LIFE 102 

CHAPTER xvm. 

ALGER — MARY 110 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE JOURNEY AND VISIT TO BOSTON 115 

CHAPTER XX. 

BOSTON AS IT WAS 126 

CHAPTER XXI. 

AN ADVENTURE. 133 


CONTENTS, 


IX 


“MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S 

FAGS 

CHAPTER XXII. 

dream” 139 

A SEA VOYAGE 

CHAPTER XXm. 

BANGOR 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

• 

THE VISIT ., 

CHAPTER XXV. 


CHAPTER XXYL 


AN EVENING AT MRS. WOLBY ? S 160 


THE NEW HOME ...... 

CHAPTER XXVII. * 

SUNDAY SCENES - 

CHAPTER XXVIH. 

OUR NEIGHBORS 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

COUNTRY VISITING . . . , 

CHAPTER XXX. 

OUR LANDLORD 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

SPRING-TIME 

• 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

MY SCHOOL 

CHAPTER XXXIH. 

197 

1* 



X 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER XXXTY. 

“ THE HUE OP DEATH IS CAST 0 ? ER EVERYTHING ” 202 

CHAPTER XXXY. 

A WAY PROVIDED 206 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

RETURN TO BANGOR 209 

CHAPTER XXXVIL 

NEW FRIENDS 215 

♦ 

CHAPTER XXXYHI. 

GOING HOME. .* 221 

* 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

SISTERLY CONFERENCES 227 

CHAPTER XL. 

MASTER HOWARD AND CHARLES COKE 231 

CHAPTER XLI. 

NEW TROUBLES 239 

. CHAPTER XLIL 

“IT WAS A DREAM AND WOULD NOT STAY ” . . . 248 

CHAPTER XLHI. 

“BEHIND THE CLOUD IS THE SUN STILL SHINING :} 253 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

MRS. CHAPLAIN 259 

CHAPTER XLV. 

SOWING AND REAPING 265 


CONTENTS. , xi 

CHAPTER XLVI. PA3B 

“not lost, but gone before” 274 

CHAPTER XLYH. 

partings by the way 277 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

“the sorrows of others cast their shadow o’er me”.. ... 283 

' CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE WIDOW 287 

CHAPTER L. 

REUBEN COKE * 292 

CHAPTER LI. 

THE HEIRESS 295 

CHAPTER LH. " 

LITTLE HELPS 302 

CHAPTER LIH. 

PINE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE 306 

CHAPTER LIV. 

THE ORPHAN 311 

CHAPTER LV. 

(l A FAYRE GIRL WITH A CHANGEFULLE SPIRIT ” 318 

✓ 

CHAPTER LVI. 

TRUST 322 

CHAPTER LVII. 

GREENVALE 326 


xn 


CONTENTS 


PACT 

CHAPTER LYIH. 

THE LETTER 329 

CHAPTER T JX. 

♦ 

energine’s return 334 

CHAPTER LX. 

RETROSPECT AND CHANGE 342 

CHAPTER LXL 

THE WIFE 346 



HOME 


CHAPTER I. 

MY mother’s DEATH 

“ There passed away from our fireside 
The wealth of a love untold.” 

Silence and sadness were in the house of Sidney Leland ! 
A heavy sorrow was on every heart. The wife and mother 
lay on her death-bed ; but for her the bitterness of death 
was passed. Husband and children, her dearest earthly 
treasures, had been given up — trustingly, lovingly resigned 
to the keeping of one who she felt would never leave nor 
forsake them, and with her mind staid on his promises of 
love, she was kept in perfect peace, waiting only for the 
summons — “ the Master ealleth for thee 1” 

Her husband had struggled long and fearfully to obtain 
the mastery over his feelings, that, in her presence at least, 
he might be calm. He had tried to say and to feel, “ Thy 
will be done j” but his spirit rebelled at the agonizing 
thought of a^eparation from the beloved companion of his 
life. 


14 


HOME. 


Alone with his God, he had been pleading for strength 
to subdue his murmurings and to enable him to bear this 
heavy chastening from his Father’s hand. Again and again 
within the last few hours, since he had been told there was 
no hope, he had stolen to the bedside, looked long and 
earnestly upon her pale face, radiant with calm and holy 
joy, as though he would have her image indelibly graven 
upon his very soul, and then hastened away again to pour 
out the bitterness of his heart’s grief before Him who alone 
could give him aid. 

Once more he stands bending over her, and gazing upon 
her loved countenance with an intensity of affection and 
subdued ^emotion in his manly face, that told more than 
words or tears could do, how deeply’ the heart of the strong 
man was stirred. Her eyes were closed. She had lain thus 
tranquil and silent through the day. Her thoughts were 
evidently not of earth. The communings of her spirit were 
with an unseen Friend, and her steady faith had rapturous 
glimpses of an unseen world. He tenderly pressed his lips 
upon her forehead. Slowly she unclosed her eyes, and 
gazed around for a moment in bewilderment, as if uncon- 
scious where she was, but as she met the agonized look of 
her husband, tears gathered in her eyes, and her arms were 
clasped about his neck, while she softly murmured, — 

“ The Lord bless thee and keep thee — the Lord make his 
face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee — the Lord 
lift up his countenance upon thee and give thee peace 
then taking his hand in hers she sought to give him words 
of comfort, and added in a calmer tone, “ Our Heavenly 


MY MOTHER S DEATH. 


15 


Father has been very merciful to us, we have enjoyed much 
happiness together all these years, and shall we murmur 
now ? Even now He is full of mercy and compassion. 
Never before have I felt the Saviour so near and precious 
to me. He is with me and I fear no evil, though I am 
passing into the dark valley. He will support and comfort 
you. He will be infinitely better to you and our dear little 
ones than any earthly friend. Do not grieve for me — rather 
rejoice because I am going so soon to be with Him. You 
will soon join me where we shall be for ever with the Lord. 

“ God will take care of our dear children ; I have given 
them up to Him ; He will help you to train them up for 
Him.” 

Her husband sobbed aloud ; he sank on his knees, and 
clasped her thin hands in his own. 

“ Oh my own sweet wife ! must I lose you, my best 
beloved ? But I am wrong, Bessy,” controlling his emotion 
with a masterly effort. “ It is the Lord ; let Him do what 
seemeth Him good. He does not willingly afflict, and oh ! 
let me not murmur against His holy will.” 


16 


HOME. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ EARTH TO EARTH AND DUST TO DUST.” 

“ Oh ! beyond that bourne : — 

In the vast cycle of being which begins 
At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms 
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 
Its workings.” 


Ah ! well do I remember the mournful tones of the minis- 
ter, the hushed silence, the solemn faces of the few kind 
neighbors gathered to attend my mother’s funeral. I knew 
my darling mother was lying, cold and stiff, in the coffin, 
with my newly-found baby- brother on her breast. 

They told me she was dead, but little indeed did I com- 
prehend their words. Childish wonder, mysterious awe, with 
a dim consciousness of some mighty overwhelming evil, were 
confusedly mingled with the current of my feelings as I 
gazed by turns on all around me. All was strange as if in 
a troubled dream. My Father! — how fixed and dreary was 
his gaze as he strove to listen to the proffered words of con- 
solation and sympathy from the holy man ! while he strug- 
gled to gain submission and strength to bear up under his 
weight of woe. The light of his happy home, the mother of 
his babes, was gone for ever from his sight. 

There was deep feeling in the faces of the little company 
as they looked upon the desolate man and the motherless 


17 


“ EARTH TO EARTH, DUST TO DUST.” 

group of seven, while the minister repeated in tremulous 
tones, the exquisitely touching and appropriate words; 
“ She that hath borne seven languisheth ; she hath given up 
the ghost ; her sun hath gone down while it was yet day.” 
As he spoke, his moistened eye and broken voice told how 
deeply his kind heart sympathized with the afflicted ones 
around him. 

Ah I she had been well loved ; she had been the pride of 
fond brothers and sisters, the joy of her husband’s heart, 
and, alas ! from her helpless band of little ones how ill 
could she be spared ! 

There was the youngest, the fair-haired Willy, of two 
summers, now hushed in Betsey’s arms, herself the picture 
of despairing grief. Good and thoughtful Bessy ! She, 
though only a child of twelve years, was ever wont to be 
the comforter, so quiet and so kind, while Mary, the eldest 
born, gave way to passionate sobbings, and hid her face in 
utter abandonment of sorrow. 

But Alger, gentle and sensitive, the tender and peculiar 
care of his mother (for he had been dumb from his birth), 
how would he miss her soft hand and loving caress, her 
ready response to the mute appeal of his dark, speaking 
eye ! And Grace, too, pale and fragile as the first spring 
flower, and as delicately beautiful, with quick mental sus- 
ceptibilities, and feelings keen and varying like the breeze 
in April, how needful for her the gentle influence of a watch- 
ful mother. My youngest sister, the chubby-faced Hester, 
and myself, full of rosy health, were in our childishness too 
fond of sport and frolic to retain long our grief and half- 


18 


HOME. 


frightened wonder. In after years we knew full well that 
that best of gifts — a kind, judicious mother — was not 
ours. 

The precious remains of our loved mother were commit- 
ted to their last resting-place, and sadly and silently the 
bereaved ones retraced their steps, and entered the dwelling 
from whence they had so lately borne her who had been its 
joy and blessing — gone now, never to return ! 

My father had before appeared calm, but as he now cast 
his eyes upon his motherless family of little ones, and thought 
what desolation Death had wrought in his happy home, his 
grief burst forth afresh. He sank into a' chair, his head 
rested upon his hands, while his whole frame shook convul- 
sively. We gathered around, weeping bitterly, and sought 
in our childish sympathy to comfort him by endearing words 
and caresses. 

Little did we then understand his grief or our own great 
loss. He did not speak, but kissed and embraced each one, 
when a considerate friend gently drew us from the room and 
left him alone. Willing hands and kind hearts had they — 
our friends and neighbors ; our evening meal was prepared, 
and all needful care and attention ministered to us ere they 
retired to their own homes. Ah, that sad evening ! 

Little Willy had fallen asleep and had been laid on Bessy’s 
bed. The rest gathered in silence round the table ; my poor 
father’s voice trembled as he asked a blessing on our food. 
Mary refused to eat, burst into tears, and left the table. 
Bessy, dear, good Bessy, more thoughtful for our father, 
though she could not restrain her tears, quietly wiped them 


19 


ct EARTH TO EARTH, AND DUST TO DUST.” 

away, as she carefully poured out his tea and made every 
arrangement for his comfort. Thus was Bessy ever doing 
and caring for others and forgetting herself. My father 
scarcely tasted food ; he moved back his chair and sat Long 
with his head bowed in silence. Mary and Bessy, with 
noiseless steps, carried away the tea-things, while we 
younger ones were grouped together still and sad, or spoke 
only in whispers. The very dog— old Hero, our companion 
and playfellow — seemed conscious that there was some unu- 
sual sorrow among us, for he walked from one to another, 
looking wistfully in our faces, resting his head in our laps a 
moment, and then lying down in his corner again. At 
length our father took down the large old Bible, from which 
he had read to us so many lessons of wisdom — the book our 
mother loved so well — I can almost see it now, that old 
Bible-^-and drawing his chair near to the light, he read a 
short portion to us in a low but steady voice ; then knelt 
and prayed ; at first in trembling tones, but as he went on, 
he gained strength and calmness. He brought us all before 
his Heavenly Bather — he pleaded so earnestly, so trustingly, 
that, young as I was, I never forgot that prayer — I never 
can forget it. When he rose, my father looked calm and 
cheerful, and I well remember feeling that God — the God 
of my father and mother — had comforted him. 

Bor several days one and another of our friends and 
neighbors would come in to cheer and aid us in our house- 
hold duties ; but Mary and Bessy, though so young, had 
been well instructed, and with affectionate solicitude they 
strove to do their best, that they might, by that means, if 


20 


HOME. 


possible, lighten the increased burden of care now resting 
on our father. 

I was soon to be separated from the little flock. Not 
long after my mothers death, an aunt, my mother’s 
youngest sister, who lived at some distance, came to see us. 
She kindly offered to assume for a time the care of one of 
the younger ones, and finally, after considerable delibera- 
tion and some alternations of choice from one to another, 
she selected mo from the group to accompany her home. 
My aunt was a good-natured, easy sort of a woman, and 
withal a little selfish ; for, being the youngest of her family, 
handsome, and decidedly willful, she had been too much 
indulged in her youth, and now was little inclined to care 
for others so long as herself was at ease. Uncle Huntley, 
her husband, was somewhat imperious in manner, and occa- 
sionally peevish and fretful ; he was several years the 
senior of my aunt, for she was yet in the bloom of youth, 
and valued himself not a little upon his descent from a 
family of some distinction. Of him I was profoundly afraid, 
but in my simple little heart I thought .aunt Hannah was so 
good-natured and kind, I should have a fine time with her 
and my two little cousins, both younger than myself ; so 
the tears I shed at parting with my brothers and sisters 
were quickly chased away by the bright anticipations of 
childhood. 


THE FIRST HOME AND THE SECOND. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

THE FIRST HOME AND THE SECOND. 

“ Flowers there are that bloom apart. 

With meekly consecrated charm, 

Whose gifts of fragrance cheer the heart 
Like healing balm.” 

My mother had been blessed with pious and tender 
parents, and had received, for those early times, a good 
education. Until the age of seventeen she had lived, with 
little change, in her sheltered happy home, in the town of 
Roxbury, just across Boston Neck. The house was but a 
few years ago yet standing. ‘This neck of land, now 
widened on either hand by soil reclaimed from the sea, and 
covered with stately dwellings, was then a mere narrow 
road, almost washed by the tide, and formed the only means 
of land communication between Boston and the adjacent 
country. My grandfather, whose name was Lyle, had a 
numerous family of children, and being desirous of opening 
a new field of enterprise for his sons just entering upon 
active life, he was induced to purchase a tract of wild 
mountain-land in the remote township which we have called 
Wayland, the scene of the events recorded in the pre- 
ceding pages. 

Accordingly, he went to Wayland with his two elder 


22 


HOME. 


sods, and established them there among the 'pioneer settlers 
of those wild, wooded hills. In the midst of prosecuting his 
plans, he returned from a journey to explore his new pos- 
sessions, to .find his beloved wife on the bed of death ; and 
in a few months he too was called to bid adieu to earthly 
things, to rest in the same peaceful grave till the morning 
of the resurrection. 

The homestead was soon transferred to strangers, and 
the remnant of the orphan family, including my mother and 
some younger brothers and sisters, repaired to their inherit- 
ance among the hills of Wayland, finding a home with the 
older sons on their new-cultivated farms. Bessy Lyle, my 
mother, is described as possessing much sweetness of nature, 
joined to a happy turn for humor and a winning sprightli- 
ness of manner, while no small share of personal beauty 
graced the bright bloom^ of her early youth. My father 
was a neighboring farmer ; he saw and loved the young 
orphan girl, and ere long she learned with her full soul to 
do justice to his excellent qualities, his intelligent good 
sense, high integrity, and, above all, his deep-toned piety. 
She became his wife, joyfully sharing with him who had 
won her young heart’s affection the toils and hardships, the 
hopes, too, and pleasures of a life in a wild region newly 
settled. 

There, in that solitary farm-house on the hill-side, had she 
passed fifteen years, a happy wife and mother, though far 
from her early home, and isolated from society, save the few 
scattered rustic neighbors. Her ready solace and cheerful 
smile were never wanting in the hour of difficulty and dis- 


THE FIRST HOME AND THE SECOND. 


23 


couragement, and her kindly ways and loving spirit 
smoothed the rough places of life, making all around her bet- 
ter and happier by drawing out the best and sweetest sym- 
pathies of our common nature. Such was my lamented 
mother, whose children form the subject of this narrative — 
this simple, unvarnished story of home-life and home-scenes. ' 

A few words respecting the town of Way land. This was 
truly a picturesque and lovely spot, consisting chiefly of hills 
skirting the beautiful valley of the Connecticut. That val- 
ley is now the pride of New England, with its palace-like 
dwellings, its busy, teeming population, its restless hum of 
business, each hill and valley echoing to the sound of the 
. untiring car, and everywhere the abode of wealth — its green 
meadows and upland slopes seeming one broad garden of 
luxuriance and beauty — but in that day it presented a far 
different aspect, for the narrative refers to a period immedi- 
ately preceding our revolutionary struggle. Then a large 
portion of New England was an unknown land — its familiar 
inhabitants the wild fowl and savage beast, with here and 
there a straggling settlement in the valleys and along the 
borders of the streams. Many quiet, lovely nooks were hid 
among its hills, of which few now remain so sequestered from 
the busy world as' not to resound with the shrill neighing of 
the iron-horse. Memory presents to my mind the vision of 
my early home, the scenes of my happiest days, glowing with 
young imagination’s warm coloring, as a place of rare beauty. 
The principal elevation towered far above the surrounding 
hills, and was called Pine Mountain, from the lofty groves 
of that majestic tree crowning its summit. On three sides 


M 


HOME. 


it declined in long, gentle slopes, abounding with the chest- 
nut and oak, furnishing fine pasturage, and well rewarding, 
too, the labors of the farmers whose brown huts, scattered 
on the knolls and ridges, sometimes peeped from among the 
thick trees, sometimes were distinguished only by the curl- 
ing smoke. Quite different, however, was the appearance 
of Pine Mountain on its eastern side ; there it made a preci- 
pitate descent to a deep ravine or chasm, called the “ Gap 
through which was the principal road. This narrow “ Gap” 
gradually widened and opened into a valley, until the little 
brook, at first rushing with wild music over its rocky bed, 
overhung with thick trees and rocky precipices, at length 
found its peaceful course among green meadows and fair 
fields, already occupied by thrifty settlers. Their farms 
extended up the slopes of the wooded hills on either side, 
while their cottages, nestled in gardens by the road-side, 
dotted the long, straight valley, till it became an undulating 
plain, crossed and bounded by ranges of hills, whdse dark 
blue summits rested against the sky. 

That valley at the foot of Pine Mountain ! — Valley Brook 
as it was called ! How the thought of its quiet loveliness 
lingers in my heart, though long, sad years have passed, 
and the sportive joys of childhood, the deep,., full happiness 
of youthful prime and of a wedded home, all alike have 
drifted down the stream of time, untill their memory seems 
like the far-off murmurings of that placid brook. 

I remember the weather-beaten. school-house on the brink 
of the shallow brook, where we laved our feet in many a 
pool, skipping from stone to stone, and under the rustie 


THE FIRST HOME AND THE SECOND. 


25 


bridge — a wonderful work of art to our childish eyes — the 
high bank, with the old broad-armed pine on its summit ; 
the sandy road, too. through the solemn old woods, on our 
way to school, so still, so dark — where we trod softly, and 
the beatings of our little hearts sounded louder than the 
pattering of our tiny feet. Oh 1 Yalley Brook ! To my 
partial memory thy green fields and gently rising hills ever 
rest in sunlight 1 



2 


HOME. 


CHAPTER IY. 

ATHERTON - . 

“ Childhood is the vernal season, 
Trim and train the tender shoot ; 
Love is to the coming reason 
As the blossom to the fruit.’’ 


The journey to my new residence in the distant town of 
Atherton was a great event to me in my childhood. 
Everything to my inexperienced eyes was delightful. The 
broad beaten road, the long sombre woods, the -hills, the 
winding river, all were new and wonderful to me. 

The village of Atherton was older, larger, and altogether 
more imposing than the simple neighborhood of my father’s 
house ; the long straight street, with its double row of 
smart white dwellings, seemed to me quite magnificent. 
My uncle’s house was much larger and grander than my 
humble cottage-home ; it had been the old parsonage, for 
the father of Uncle Huntley was the former clergyman of 
the town. 

The house stood with its gable-end to the street, shaded 
by two venerable elms in front ; in the rear was a garden 
and an orchard, with trees so thick that in summer scarce 
a ray of sunshine could glimmer through the branches on 
the soft green carpet below. 


ATHERTON. 


27 


The remembrance of two years which I spent in this place 
with my aunt, is mostly dim and confused, shaping itself to 
nothing marked or clear, excepting an intense desire, 
towards the last of the time, to return to my own home. 
My fear of my uncle I could never overcome. 

He was somewhat querulous in manner, and his tone of 
voice was sharp and startling. I was always shy of speak- 
ing before him, or indeed of being in his presence at all ; 
timid and shrinking, I generally contrived to escape the 
notice of visitors, for I was keenly alive to the idea of fitness 
and good looks, and was frequently oppressed with a feeling 
of shame, as I thought of the appearance I made. An 
indistinct impression yet remains of having been neglected, 
of being unwashed, uncombed, sometimes even in tattered 
garments. 

Not that my aunt was unkind to me — far from it ; with 
the best of feelings and intentions, she had taken me to her 
home. The addition of another to the number of her own 
little ones must have been a sensible increase both of labor 
and expense, and they were far from being rich. Her hus- 
band, though in many respects a worthy man, was some- 
times exacting and hard to please ; her own children were 
troublesome, and so no doubt was I — a child of only six 
years, lively, impetuous, and full of robust health, feeling in 
every limb the bounding pulse of the dawn of life. 

Love and gratitude have ever been deeply cherished in 
my heart for my kind, careless, easy-tempered, mirth-loving 
aunt. If in aught she failed in duty to me, her sister's 
child, that failure was solely the result of the thoughtless, 


28 


HOME. 


good-natured negligence inherent in her disposition, which 
rendered her equally averse to the unwelcome task of cor- 
recting the faults of my character, and to the daily care of 
supplying all my childish wants. How I love'd her children ! 

They were both younger than myself. Harvey was a 
gleesome noisy boy, my partner in many a merry play, as 
well as my opponent in many a little bickering. He was a 
very tyrant in exacting compliance with his wishes, well 
knowing that the trouble of curbing his turbulent temper 
would prove too great a task to be often undertaken. 
Little Mary, delicate in health, and somewhat peevish, was 
my especial charge, and, in my view, the “ wee dearie” was 
entitled to the full gratification of every whim. 

Another was added to the family during my stay, the 
darling baby Clara, whom it was my delight to fondle in 
my lap, gaze into her deep blue eyes, and press my lips tc 
her sweet, rosy mouth, the dimpled home of kisses. 

I was the little errand-girl of the household, too, to wait, 
and tend, and run, at each one’s call. 

When not employed, I roamed as fancy led me over the 
house, garden, or orchard, or played with the children, 
seldom- heeded or questioned. My favorite resort was to a 
corner of the garden where a clump of rosebushes grew 
neglected. Deep in their shade, I made my little playhouse, 
and collected my store of precious things, the knowledge of 
which I carefully guarded from all. There, for many an 
hour in the long summer days, I revelled in my childish 
fancies, finding ever new delight in making dolls of poppies 
and roses, with their gay silken petals for dresses. 


ATHERTON. 


29 


Even now I recall the pleased feeling with which I 
reflected that my dolls were more richly dressed than King 
Solomon, for, to my infant comprehension, they had quite as 
real an existence as had the Hebrew King of the Bible. 

One day, near the end of the second year of my stay in 
Atherton, my father came to visit us, bringing with him 
my Uncle Huntley’s widowed sister, Aunt Bhoda, as the 
children called her. She was very lively, and talked to me 
in a funny strain, quite delighting my little heart by the 
notice she took of me. My father was grave, but he seemed 
happy. He could not take me home with him then, he said, 
but he should try to send for me soon. 

Just before he went away, he took me into the garden 
alone, and spoke most kindly to me for sometime about my 
duty to my Heavenly Father, to my remaining parent and 
friends. His words made a deep impression on me for the 
time, and led me to make many resolutions to be a very 
good girl. I am not sure that such impressions upon the 
mind of a child are ever entirely erased, though the effect 
may not be seen or known for many years. It is only by 
“precept upon precept,” and “line upon line,” that the 
heart ran be duly reached. 


80 


HOME. 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE NEW MOTHER. 

Hot long after the visit of my father, mentioned in the 
preceding chapter, my aunt came one night to the side of 
my little cot, saying that she had something to tell me. 

I listened with wonder, as she informed me that a new 
mother had gone to take her place in my father’s house, and 
that my father would soon send for me to go home. She 
told me I must love her as I had done my own dear mother, 
and that when I went back to Wayland, I must try to be a 
very good child. Her tone of unwonted seriousness left 
somewhat of fear and dread upon my mind in regard to this 
new relative, and I fell asleep full of dreamy apprehensions 
of some undefined evil. 

My new mother was the sister of my Uncle Huntley, the 
same widow lady who had accompanied my father in his 
recent visit to Atherton. 

She had been the only daughter of indulgent parents. 
She grew up with a strong, ungoverned will, little imbued 
with the spirit of self-sacrifice, so important an element in a 
true- woman’s character. Early in her girlhood she formed 
an attachment for a low-lived, worthless foreigner, employed 
in her father’s family. Her father, naturally enough, hav- 
ing higher wishes for this, his only daughter, forbade her to 


THE NEW M0TI1EE. 


31 


see or think of him ; but his commands being disregarded, 
she was at length forbidden to leave her room. The 
strength of her will and her ungovernable temper, now spent 
their fury upon her physical system, and threw her into a 
slow fever. Her parents becoming alarmed, ceased their 
opposition, and, recovering her health again, she shortly 
after became the wife of her unworthy admirer. 

His subsequent conduct realized the worst fears of her 
friends, for after some years of poverty and wretchedness, 
he abandoned her, and died in a distant town. His wife 
and three sons were left to the care of her relatives, who 
subsequently brought about the union with my father. By 
this marriage, she became the mother of seven children, five 
of them girls, between the ages of five and fifteen ; a situa- 
tion demanding much prudence, gentle firmness, and disin- 
terested love, expressed in acts of untiring kindness. This 
rare combination of qualities was certainly not possessed by 
my step-mother, whose unchastened spirit was but stung to 
impatience by her trials, or benumbed into sullen and cal- 
lous indifference. “There are hearts whose sorrows all 
spring up into joys for others v — which become softened and 
purified by affliction — but these are natures of finer mould. 

The shallow, brawling brook may glisten in the sun, and 
show many a shining pebble, but can by no possibility flow 
with the peaceful, yet resistless current of the deep river, 
whose placid surface, from its clear, calm depths, reflects 
the sky in ever-varying beauty. 

Let me,. then, in portraying character, do no injustice ; 
my step-mother had but ordinary endowments by nature ; 


HOME. 


hers was a different type of womanhood from that which 
invests the hallowed memory of my own mother. The one 
was like the shallow, babbling brook, the other like the 
deep, peaceful river. To my sainted mother belonged the 
wealth of affection of “ the grand, full soul,” self-forgetting, 
devoted, an ever-flowing fountain of tenderness and sympa- 
thy. A serene, deep-felt excellence like this my step- 
mother could not even comprehend. 

Let me revert, in my next chapter, to the time just pre- 
vious to my return home. 


TEAKS AND SMILES. 


33 


CHAPTER YI. 

TEARS AND SMILES. 

One afternoon my cousin Harvey came running in, with 
a bound and a jump, saying, “ I want some water, mother. 
Anna, get me a drink/’ I obeyed ; accustomed to do what 
would best ensure quiet, for the wayward boy well knew 
that his mother’s aversion to any trouble or disturbance 
gave him much power. “Hurrah!” said he, “father is 
coming home to night : he will bring me a present and 
swinging his hat around, it brushed my hair, dislodged the 
comb that confined it, and swept my long clustering locks 
all over my face, leaving my new comb —no trifling matter 
to me, then — in fragments on the floor. Angry and vexed, 
I caught the offending hat and threw it out of the open win- 
dow. He sprang towards me with a menacing air and 
clenched fist, and appealed loudly to his mother. I know 
not what scene might have ensued, but my aunt, who was 
just trying to hush the baby to sleep, vexed with the noise, 
gave us each a slap on the ear, saying angrily, as she shook 
my arm, “ Why need you always be meddling with him ? 
There is no peace in the house when you are together.” I 
stole away, feeling condemned for my share in the uproar, 
yet with a sense of injustice done me ; I was stung to the 
quick by my aunt’s reproaches, and ran to my haunt under 
2 * 


34 : 


HOME. 


tlie rose bushes, threw myself on the ground, and, in the first 
tumult of my childish passion, I tried to stop my breathing, 
so that I might die ; but this violent mood was soon over. 
Presently the tears ran ; first of anger, then of grief, as I 
thought of my brothers and sisters, the playmates of my 
infancy ; of my father, too, and with him came the ever-re- 
curring conjectures concerning my new mother ; whether 
she would love me and be kind to me, with a vague, unde- 
fined misgiving on this point ; yet my heart bounded at the 
thought of home, and I wished, oh, how much, for wings to 
fly like a bird straight to my father’s house, whither I had 
been for weeks expecting, with the eagerness of childhood, 
an opportunity to return. 

But I was a light-hearted child, seldom retaining long in 
my heart sad or angry feelings, and when evening came, I 
had quite forgotten the w r hole affair, heartily joined in the 
lively talk and curious conjectures as to what present each 
one would have, for my uncle had been on a journey to Bos- 
ton — no slight event in those days of slow and* difficult tra- 
velling — and now his return was eagerly watched for by the 
children. 

A fire had been lighted in the kitchen, for it was a cool 
October evening, and we were around it, listening at inter- 
vals for the sound of his wheels. 

“ But he won’t bring you any present,” said Harvey, 
whose good-nature towards me was not yet restored, “it is 
not your father, but only your uncle. ” 

I had been doubtfully revolving the same idea myself, and 
was therefore the more easily vexed by his unkind sugges- 
tion. 


TEAKS AND SMILES. 


35 


“ I think he ought to bring me one as well as you, I am 
older than you,” was my reply. 

“ But I know lie won’t,” said he ; “ will he, mother ?” 

“ Hush, children,” said my aunt, “ don’t be troublesome.” 

“ He promised me, he did not promise you any present, 
Anna,” persisted Harvey. 

“ Be quiet, can’t you, till he comes, and then you will all 
see what he brings,” said she. 

“ I wish I could go home, then my father would bring me 
something,” I exclaimed pettishly, “ I hate to stay here.” 

“You are trouble enough here, I am sure,” said my aunt ; 
“ ypu and Harvey are always quarrelling.” 

“ I wish you would go away to-morrow,” said Harvey. 

Tears would come into my eyes, in spite of my most stub- 
born efforts, and I sobbed bitterly. 

“ What a foolish child,” said my aunt ; then added, 
soothingly, “ Don’t mind what a little boy says.” 

Just then the wagon was heard outside ; the children ran 
to the door, and in the confusion of the arrival I escaped 
into a little dark bed-room, and hid my face in the pillow ; 
nor did I come from my place of concealment till after a 
time, peeping out, I perceived my uncle seated at the sup- 
per table ; a strange boy with him excited my curiosity, and 
I crept softly round to the corner behind the cradle, where, 
unnoticed, I could scan the face of the new-comer. He was 
a tall lad, of forward bearing, looked about boldly, and 
spoke in a loud voice that altogether impressed me disagree- 
ably, and made me hope he would not spy me. I soon 
found out that this was Rupert Gill, the eldest son of my 


36 


HOME. 


new mother. He had come from Dorchester with his uncle 
— for XJncle Huntly was his mother’s brother — his residence 
being in that place with two old maiden aunts. 

He was now going to visit his mother, as I learned from 
the conversation, and as it would afford an opportunity for 
my return to Wayland, it was proposed that I should 
accompany him, an idea that I did not at all like at first, 
much as I longed to go to my own home ; for the appear- 
ance of this boy did not prepossess me in his favor. 

Meantime he kept on talking in a brisk tone, quite at his 
ease. 

“What is your. name, little fellow ?” said he, flippantly, 
to Harvey ; “ why, you are nothing but a musquito ; you 
don’t remember cousin Rupert, hey ?” 

But without stopping for an answer, “ How long is it 
since I was here before, XJncle John ?” said he, turning to 
my uncle. 

I looked tip at him, wondering at the bold, confident 
manner in which he addressed my Uncle Huntley, who had 
always inspired me with so much fear. 

Aunt Hannah called me to her presently, and said to 
him, “ This is Anna Leland, Rupert ; your mother is hers 
now.” 

I shall never forget the leer in his eye and the bold stare 
with which he regarded me, while he said in a mocking 
tone, 

“ You’re a sly puss, I’ll warrant.” 

This summary disposal of my character did not increase 
my liking towards the new-comer. 


TEAKS AND SMILES. 37 

“ I should think, Rupert,” said rnv aunt, “ you would be 
very glad to visit your mother in her new home.” v 

“ Oh, yes,” answered he, carelessly. “ She is far enough 
into the bushes, I should think. Is it all woods there ?” 

“It is a very good place,” said Uncle Huntley, rather 
tartly, which put a stop to the conversation. 

Meantime the children had been hovering round their 
father’s chair, and, after some solicitation, the presents were 
produced. 

Harvey was made perfectly happy by the possession of a 
miniature gun, and Mary not less so, by a sugar man with a 
pipe in his mouth. We were all in the best possible humor ; 
I quite forgot myself in my delight in the new toys. Har- 
vey played with his gun, which went off with a snap, pre- 
tending over .and over again to shoot Mary and me, each 
time with new bur sts of merriment. 

I saw no present for myself that night, but my mind was 
too much engrossed with the thought of going home, to 
dwell upon the omission. 

The next morning, however, I was delighted to receive a 
little reticule, the prettiest I had ever seen, which had been 
sent me from Boston, by my Aunt Hastings, the aunt for 
whom I was named. Nothing since has looked more beau- 
tiful to my eyes, than did that gay, silken bag, and my joy 
was complete when I found within it a tiny thimble and a 
shining pair of scissors. 

“ How do you like it ?” asked Aunt Hannah. 

“ It is beautiful I” I exclaimed — then added gravely, “ If 


38 


HOME. 


I had been a little girl, I might have liked something else 
better, but now nothing could please me so well.” 

“ Oh ! indeed, you are quite a young lady, to be sure,” 
said Rupert, who was standing by, with a laugh and a tone 

I 

that sent the blood into my .cheeks with sudden mortifica- 
tion, and I hastened from the room, wondering what I had 
said to excite ridicule, for my aunt too smiled at this 
assumption of womanly airs. 

The next day, the bluff, jovial, self-important, but not ill- 
natured boy, went with me to my father’s house — his mo- 
ther’s new home. That mother I longed, yet dreaded, to 
meet, questioning with myself whether she would be to me 
more like a mother or an aunt, whether she would love me 
and be kind to me, and doubtful if she could be as really my 
father’s wife as was my own mother. 


HOME AGAIN — RUPERT. 


39 


CHAPTER VII. 

HOME AGAIN RUPERT. 

“ He was one 

Who could not help it, for ’twas his nature 
To flourish into glee, as ’tis a tree’s 
To leaf itself in April.” 

“ Are those hearths as bright as of yore, without the shadow of our figure ?” 

I left my XJncle Huntley’s with little or no regret, for, 
though I loved my cousins, I loved my dear brothers and 
sisters still more, and my little heart bounded at the thought 
of being once more among them in my own home. 

It was a bright, cool morning, and as we rode off the ris- 
ing sun shone out, clear and sparkling, upon the white-frost 
crystals which glistened upon every tiny, spear of grass and 
every leafy shrub. I did not enjoy the journey much, for 
the arrogant airs of my new acquaintance, and his continual 
bantering, made me a little afraid of him, and quite uncom- 
fortable. 

Late in the day we reached the bank of a small stream. 
The little shattered bridge had been washed away by a sud- 
den rise of water, occasioned by heavy rains. 

“ Whew !” said Rupert, looking about with pretended 
anxiety ; “We are to have a ducking now, I guess. What 
do you think of that, Nanny, eh ?” 


40 


HOME. 


“ Wliat shall we do ?” I ventured to inquire. 

11 Do ? Why, do as other folks do, to be sure. If there 
isn’t any bridge to go on, we must make a bridge of the 
water. Don’t you know how that is done ? I’ll take care 
of the horse and wagon, and you are so light, you can skip 
right over on your feet, if you run quick.” 

“No, I can’t,” said I, trying to laugh, yet slightly 
alarmed by his serious tone and manner. 

“ Well, I think it is queer if a great heavy man can keep 
up, and swim on the water, and a little thing like you can’t, 
do it. That don’t suit you, hey ? I’ll get on the horse and 
ride over, then, and you may sit in the wagon and roll 
right along after me.” 

I was tired, and having been worried all day by his teaz 
ing, began to feel really alarmed. • I could contain myself 
no longer, and burst out into violent sobbing and crying. ' 

“ There, there,” said he, half laughing, but now really in 
earnest, “ I didn’t mean anything. I’ll get you over, safe 
and sound. The water isn’t deep ; can’t you see the stones 
at the bottom ? We can ride through it easily. Come, 
cheer up, that’s my lady. You are my sister, you know, 
and I am going to take grand good care of you.” Then, 
taking up a little pebble, he sent it skipping and whizzing 
across the water. 

“ There, don’t you wish you could skip over like that ? 
I’m sure I do. I should like to ride over at that rate. .Will 
you throw it if I’ll jump on ?” 

I began to laugh in spite of myself. As we rode down 
into the water, he sank his voice into a confidential whisper, 


HOME AGAIN RUPERT. 


41 


and said, “ I can see some fishes in the water ; ain’t you 
afraid we shall ride over them and kill them ? You won’t 
tell anybody if we do, will you, for you know we can’t 
help it.” 

This was such a funny idea to me, that I laughed heartily, 
and quite reassured, began to feel less afraid of my strange 
companion, and even to relish his comical jokes. 

At length our journey was ended, and ah ! that meeting, 
in which joy, sorrow, and fear, were strangely blended ! 

I cried heartily, amid kisses and embraces. My beloved 
father ! how tenderly he took me in his arms and welcomed 
me home ; saying, in his quiet, solemn way, “ God grant, 
my dear little daughter may live to be a blessing to her 
father.” He greeted Rupert kindly, who seemed awed by 
his mild dignity, looking really a little abashed. Presently 
his mother appeared, and advancing to her son, she loudly 
exclaimed, “ Why, Rupert, you are almost a man ! I de- 
clare I am quite afraid of you !” evidently admiring his 
dashing, bold, and forward air. 

“ And here’s my little lady come home, too. Why, 
you’re not sorry, are you ? Come here • we are old acquain- 
tances, you know.” 

But I shrank away, ran out the door, and cried more 
heartily than before. Bessy, following, encircled me lovingly 
in her arms, and gently led me round the corner of the 
house, talking cheerfully, and called Hester and Willie from 
their play. 

“ You have not grown so fast as Hester ; see, she is as 
tall as you.” Then placing us side by side, she pressed our 


42 


HOME. 


cheeks together, then our lips and noses, saying, 11 You are 
two little Chinese girls now. Do you know they always 
touch noses when they meet V 1 

Little Willie would say nothing to me, but held by 
Bessy’s apron. It soon began to grow dark, and we all 
went into the house again. 

And now, how distinctly the picture comes up before me ! 
A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, for the chill 
autumnal winds were giving notice of the coming winter. 
My new mother was bustling about, preparing the evening 
meal. The family were all together once more. Bessy led 
me to my father’s side, who was in his accustomed seat, a 
settee — or settle, as it was then called — in one comer of 
the ample fire-place. 

Huge shadows flickered on the low walls of the large, 
old-fashioned kitchen, dimly lighted by the uncertain blaze 
from the wood fire. 

Mary, now sixteen, well-grown and really handsome, was 
seated by Rupert, who, with his very best air, was parrying 
with his jokes her lively sallies, both in high glee. 

Grace and Alger sat opposite to them, in one chair, mak- 
ing, by signs, mute comments on the new-comer, glancing 
at him from time to time. I slid from my father’s arm and 
joined them ; Hester took my hand, and we were soon in 
lively conversation, mostly carried on in pantomime. Bessy 
was helping our mother. She was taller than Mary, but 
stooped a little, as if called to exert her growing strength 
too much, and her countenance wore an anxious look. 

After supper, my father took the family Bible, and all 


HOME AGAIN RUPERT. 


43 


was huslied in silence, while he read from its sacred pages, 
and then, in his own deep, earnest tones, commended his 
little flock to the care and guidance of the God of their 
Fathers. 

Again I felt that I was at home — as if the past two years 
had been obliterated. 


44 


HOME. 


CHAPTER Till. 

PINE MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY BROOK. 


“ High hill and valley deep, 

Where nature’s beauties sleep, 
Unknown, unnoticed by the crowd of men.” 


My father’s dwelling, in truth, was not situated in Tal- 
ley Brook, nor yet upon the grove-dappled terrace which 
overlooked its smiling verdure and calm beauty. 

A road from the valley, leading up its side to the steep, 
rocky brow of the hill, wound circuitously round, joining the 
main turnpike at a little distance ; while a lane, branching 
off, gained the summit by a gentle acclivity, and brought to 
view the little brown cottage, situated a few rods down the 
green slope, and half hidden by a clump of cherry trees. 
Only one other house was visible, and over its roof the 
wooded top of Pine Mountain appeared, rearing its graceful 
crest. The outer declivity of the hilly ridge, unlike the 
steep side toward the valley, formed a long sweep of wood- 
land and pasture, with here and there a cultivated field. 
The soil was deep and strong, and well repaid the labor of 
tillage, though the whole region seemed based upon a vast 
ledge of granite ; sometimes the moss-covered surface of the 
rock just peeped above the ground ; again it stood piled up 
in bold precipices, with overhanging trees and shrubs, wild- 


PINE MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY BKOOK. 


45 


flowers and creeping plants, springing from each fissure and 
crevice. 

The sweetest berries grew around those rocks, and the 
cows that fed upon the patches of soil hid and interspersed 
among the crags and ledges, furnished the richest milk and 
produced the best of butter. The growth of fruit, too, was 
remarkably fine and abundant. There was an orchard on’ 
either side of the house, where more than one tree drooped 
its boughs, heavy with golden fruit, over a broad ledge or a 
steep rock. 

We were a busy atjd frugal family, for it required the 
united exertions of all to bar want from the door ; to pro- 
cure the comforts, or even the necessaries of life. 

My father was careful, industrious, exact, and methodical 
in the management of his affairs, so as to secure always a 
uniform, comfortable provision for his large family. Another 
little brother, and ere long a sister, were added to our num- 
ber, which, with my stepmother’s youngest son, consisted of 
ten children, to be fed, clothed, and educated. 

The state of the country for some years after peace was 
declared, was unsettled, and far from prosperous. Taxes 
were enormous, and bore heavily on the pioneer settlers, for 
the country was new, and quite inaccessible to the sources 
of wealth found in the older cities and villages along the 
sea-shore. 

A frock of calico was the greatest luxury of dress that 
could be afforded by females in that retired district. The 
wedding dress of our mother was a wonder of beauty to our 
childish eyes ; it was of green calico, nearly covered with 


46 


HOME. 


large gay figures of yellow, red, and blue ; its cost yer yard 
was one dollar and twenty cents ; and for many years it 
was tbe dress slie wore at every wedding, quilting, or social 
party. 

Young girls ordinarily wore a short slip of calico or cam- 
bric, over a skirt of home-made materials ; and busy must 
be their hands, when not only must they perform all the 
every-day labors of the household, found so arduous by the 
young ladies of the present generation, but they must also 
both spin and weave. Through their patient industry, wool 
and flax must be converted from the raw material, into win- 
ter and summer garments, table-linen, and the complete 
habiliments of the bed, from the coarse tow covering of the 
straw mattress, to the fine linen sheets, 11 whiter than snow, 
laid up carefully with fragrant herbs, the thrifty house- 
wife’s stores.” 

With the early spring began the task to be performed by 
persevering toil. The preparation of the flax was the work 
of men and boys, the breaking and hatcheling, by which the 
finer threads were separated from the coarser and shorter 
portions of tow. Then, winding the silky fibres around the 
distaff, the females began the work of spinning, which is bnt 
the first step in the busy process of household manufactures. 
Even after the web is woven, the cloth made, the whitening, 
or bleaching it upon the grass, is still the work of many 
days. Many a pail of water must be carried out, the cloth 
folded together, then thoroughly wetted, and again spread 
out in the warm sun, that the rapid evaporation of moisture 
may aid in its bleaching. 


PINE MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY BEOOK. 47 

Nor was school forgotten or neglected, in the midst of all 
these labors. In winter, the only season of comparative 
leisure, we wended our way, a light-hearted, merry troop, 
down the steep, rocky road, then through the dark, still, 
pine woods, and across the rude bridge, to the old school- 
house, even now standing as in those long-past days, on the 
brink of the brook ; the “ brick school-house,” as it was 
called, par eminence ; a quaint, old-fashioned structure, 
evidencing in the solidity of its walls, and the expense laid 
out in its erection, the value set upon the means of educa- 
tion by those worthy pioneers, and their belief in the neces- 
sity of permanence in such institutions. It was more than 
a mile from our own house, but we thought it no hardship, 
though not clad in furs, to bound through the deep snows, 
in face of the fierce blasts of a New England winter, till we 
reached our destination; stopping, however, at each' house — 
they were but two — to warm. Well do I remember the 
matron of one of these cottages, good Mrs. Govey, who 
would watch for our coming, and meet us at her door, with 
her warmed woolen apron to wrap our aching hands ; then 
she would seat us on stools before the fire, pleasantly talk- 
ing with us all the while. Noble woman ! Though acquain- 
ted with constant, severe trial, and many privations, yet she 
had a heart full to overflowing of kindness ; a spirit which 
could patiently and tranquilly endure the churlishness of 
her strange, austere, rough, and unpliant husband. Mr. 
Govey, or 11 Old Govey,” as he was usually termed, was a 
singular mixture of shrewdness, oddity, and ugliness. His 
eyes were so much turned, or crossed, that he could not see 


48 


HOME. 


what was directly before him ; turning, squinting, and con- 
tracting his eye-brows and forehead, as if the organ of vision 
was in his ears. He was totally indifferent to the claims of 
propriety in dress, seeming to be best suited with the most 
uncouth habiliments. His spirit of contradiction was 
remarkable, always trying to confound and silence one by 
a rough retort, especially in matters of religion by a sudden 
or strange, and seemingly malicious, perversion of some part 
of the Bible. He was well-informed, reading — or rather 
having his children read to him, for he could not see — every 
thing that came in his way. 

Strictly honest, and very industrious, “ Old Govey ” had 
amassed a comfortable property, yet so churlish was he, 
and so niggardly, even to his own family, that it was with 
difficulty his wife could obtain the needful supplies of house- 
hold comforts. 

Many tales were told among his neighbors of his unkind 
and sharp replies to common questions and remarks, and he 
was never known to grant a favor without the accompani- 
ment of surly, ungracious words. 

Being sent one day by my father to borrow of him a 
carpenter’s tool, I timidly made known my errand, remain- 
ing partly behind him ; turning sharply round, and twisting 
his stern, contracted features into a grim frown, he answered, 
in a loud, quick tone, “ Yes ; and bring it back the minute 
he has done with it, or I’ll cut your head off.” Though 
frightened, and glad to get away as soon as possible, the 
rough reply was no matter of surprise to me. Uncle Har- 
*ry, living near, once sent a boy to him for some trifling aid 


PINE MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY BKOOK. 49 

in his work, and was tartly repulsed with a direct refusal, 
causing my uncle some inconvenience. The, same day, 
Aunt Kathy, his wife, chanced to receive a present of some 
nice honey. Knowing her surly neighbor to be remarkably 
fond of this luxury, she took a portion of it and carried it 
herself to his cottage, pleasantly asking him, in her own 
graceful manner, to share with her. Touched with shame 
at this kind return for his moroseness, he struck both his 
hands on his head, loudly exclaiming, “ Oh ! you burn me, 
you burn me ; you heap coals of fire on my head !” 

To all his harshness and ill-nature, his excellent wife was 
never known to reply but in mild and pleasant tones, and 
one of our neighbors quaintly remarked, “ Old Govy has 
one redeeming quality, and that is his wife.” 

But to return to our description. At a casual glance 
Y alley Brook would seem to comprise almost the whole of 
Wayland. The rich meadows and well-tilled uplands 
evinced prosperity and thrift ; already the buzz and noise 
of the busy wheels of machinery were heard, while the whirr 
of mills and the rush of waterfalls, made by intersecting 
dams, announced that the quiet stream was made to sub- 
serve the purposes of. wealth to the inhabitants. 

The passing traveller might well look back and linger as 
he left this charming valley and turned his steps towards 
the narrow and craggy road, through the gap, and pursued 
his solitary way. Above him, on one side, was the steep, 
overhanging mountain ; on the other, the wild tangled 
ravine, with its deep gurgling brook. Slowly ascending, he 
emerges at length on an uneven, rocky bluff, and there 

3 


50 


HOME. 


stands the small, plain, weather-beaten church of Wayland, 
a few mean houses gathered near it, but all looking dreary 
and forlorn. 

As he journeys on the aspect becomes still less inviting,, 
till he exclaims, “ What a barren, desolate region 1” Yet 
hidden behind the hills, in the shade of chestnut groves, or 
among the dark pines, was many a snug old-fashioned farm- 
house, a sheltering nest for sturdy sons and fair daughters. 

On Sundays that lone church was well filled, the congre- 
gation gathering in cheerful groups from every by-road and 
lane. The parents on horseback, the universal mode of 
riding, the wife on a pillion behind her husband, while a 
walk of two or three miles to church was deemed by the 
young, no hardship. 

Ah, how vividly does memory paint the picture of my 
childhood’s home ! Much do I recollect, too, of the sunny* 
hours of careless play in the open air. Each familiar haunt 
is before me, even now l The broad flat rock at the 
top of the hill above our house, where, after every 
shower, the water stood in tiny pools — where were innume- 
rable little crevices, corners, and cunning nooks, charming 
as the haunts of fairy-land to our merry young hearts— 
this was our favorite resort at the close of the long, bright 
summer-day, when the sunset beams cast the long slant 
shadows in fantastic forms, and the gathering dews of even- 
ing brought refreshing coolness. 

The large, wild pasture, too, where we skipped among 
the rocks, or followed the winding, shady paths looking 
with awe at the towering crags, and the dim depths of the 


PINE MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY BKOOK. 


51 


dark old woods. The Indian kettles, too, as we called 
them, were objects of much curiosity, then supposed to be 
relics of the children of the forest, exciting, in later years, 
still greater interest with geologists as marking the action 
of water, and consequently an evidence that the whole 
region must at no distant period have been submerged. 
They were round, smooth cavities, of varying size, some 
several feet deep, others capable of holding a quart or two, 
some still smaller. We supposed them the work of Indians, 
made to pound their corn in perhaps, and much we won- 
dered and fancied about their wild haunts and habita- 
tions. 

The berries and the nuts, too, that we picked ! larger 
and sweeter they seemed than any now do. Those chest- 
nuts ! We knew the place of each particular tree. In the 
brisk air of a November morning, how cheerily we tripped 
forth, with bags and baskets. The elder boys climbed the 
tree, or beat the branches with long poles, while our 
bright eyes searched among the crisp grass for the shining 
brown nuts, and nimble fingers gathered our winter 
store. 

Oh, joyous playmates of my merry childhood ! loved and 
loving companions of my hopeful, happy youth ! How does 
my heart warm, and how do my eyes grow dim, as these 
fairy visions start up before my mind. Alas ! of all your 
blooming circle there now remain to me only Bessy and 
Hester ; and where is the free, glad step of the one, where 
the careless gaiety of the other ? Ah 1 instead, the lines 


52 


HOME. 


of sorrow and the burden of years are deeply traced in the 
pale, withered cheek, the stooping, tottering gait. But 
Time can only touch the outward form, the heart and the 
affection are still unchanged. 


MY GRANDPARENTS. 


53 


CHAPTER IX. 

MY GRANDPARENTS. 

“ The good die not.” 

Down the green slope behind the house, over some broken 
ground, in a sort of dell or hollow, stood the nearest cot- 
tage, by the side of a little brook, shaded with large old 
trees. In that rude, yet romantic spot, my grandfather 
Leland had, many years before, made himself a home. Here, 
almost alone, amid the savage wildness of untamed nature, 
he had labored to win from the flinty soil its hard-earned 
products for the support of his large family. Here had been 
my father’s early home, and it was now occupied by his 
youngest brother, Uncle Harry Leland, between whom and 
my father subsisted a most tender brotherly affection. Not 
a day passed in which they did not meet, always with kindest 
greetings. My father had a cheerful, yet serene temper, 
and seemed to live constantly under the influence of the 
religion he professed. Uncle Harry was gentle in his ways, 
but had a merry, frolicksome humor, ever with a smile on 
his lips, and a word of fun for the children, who all loved 
him dearly. Aunt Kathy, his wife, was of a pale, delicate 
mien, with a soft voice, seeming the impersonation of good- 
ness and love, and her beautiful baby-boy was, in my eyes, 
the most lovely of children. After a few years, however, 


54 


HOME. 


Uncle Harry removed to a distant town. This was, at the 
time, a sore grief to us, for we all loved most dearly our 
jovial uncle and his gentle wife ; and especially the darling 
little one was the great object of our childish admiration, 
and to be permitted to go to “ the other house,” as it was 
familiarly termed, was a special delight and favor to any of 
us. The old house — a mere hut — fell into decay, and 
scarce a vestige now remains to mark the place where it 
stood. 

But a single recollection is left me of my grandfather 
Leland — his animated, earnest prayers, when so old and 
infirm as to be unable to rise from his chair. 

My dear and venerated grandmother I well remember, 
then quite aged, with her meek, placid face, as she sat in the 
easy-chair in the corner, the little round table by her side, 
on which lay alternately, her knitting-work and her Bible, 
her constant companions. Earthly things were fading, as a 
feverish dream, and she was tranquilly awaiting her sum- 
mons to a brighter world. She passed quietly away, was 
laid in her peaceful grave, and the busy world moved on. 

She was well-known and well-beloved in that region. 
After the death of my own mother, she used frequently to 
come walking up across the field, supported by her cane, 
and sit all day mending garments for us. It was a great 
treat for any of us to walk back with her. At the half-way 
stone she would sit down to rest, talking kindly of our little 
i*fs; or giving us advice how to take care'of our clofcfcJBB, 
and many useful hints in house-keeping. 

I have been told by those who knew her in her younger 


MY GRANDPARENTS. 


55 


days, that she was very energetic and skillful, as well as 
truly benevolent. When the town was new and the inhabi- 
tants few in number, her superior intelligence and skill ena- 
bled her to act as a physician. In extreme cases of sick- 
ness, she was frequently known to put on boots and walk 
through woods in a dark night ; and in more than one in- 
stance she rode for miles, when travelling was dangerous, on 
horseback, behind the messenger who went in haste after 
her. 

Nor were such the only instances in which were shown 
her courage and strength of character. 

At one time, being alone in her little cottage, far from 
neighbors, she vanquished a bear, with the aid of the broom- 
handle. The animal had seized upon her best pig, which he 
had already dragged several rods from the pen, and was tug- 
ging with might and main to pull over a huge log. that lay in 
his way. The cries of the poor pig attracted the notice of 
my grandmother, who ran out, and dealt such sturdy blows 
upon Bruin’s head and face with her weapon, that, though 
quite intent on his spoils, he relinquished his prey, and 
made good his retreat. 

Hers was true heroism, for such we may justly call that 
courage that conquers perils, overcomes difficulties and hard- 
ships, by patient endurance and active exertion. 

In her faithful performance of the duties of her more hum- 
ble and limited sphere, we recognize the same qualities that 
distinguished the noble women whose names are honored by 
fame, cherished and embalmed in our hearts with the memo- 
ries of great deeds. 


56 


HOME. 


Her great-grandchildren are now acting their several 
parts in the crowded arena of life, scattered over the land, 
from the borders of Maine to the banks of the Mississippi — on 
the broad slopes and sun-lit glades of Ohio — among the fair, 
fertile fields of New York, and on the vast prairies of the 
West. Some are merchants in our polished Atlantic cities ; 
some are farmers on the quiet hills of New England : and 
not a few preachers of the gospel. Gould her dust be re- 
animated, and she now stand in the midst of her descendants 
— no small company — she would see many of them, thanks 
to her covenant God, her children indeed* in faith and piety. 

Who can say how much of present blessing we receive 
in answer to the prayers of our pious and self-denying fore- 
fathers ? 

We do indeed venerate the memory and virtues of our 
hardy ancestors. Thanks to the influence of their noble 
example descending as the mantle of the prophet on us their 
children, we can see the moral beauty of high aims, devoted 
courage, patient endurance, and earnest faith and truth. 

Yet to some, perchance, the simple record of these unpre- 
tending virtues may seem but the common-place of every- 
day life, and fail to awaken in their bosoms one spark of 
generous feeling or noble admiration for the good and the 
true, the really heroic in life and character. Fashionable 
idlers there are among us, delicate, soft, neryous beings, who 
weep, it may be, over the vapid pages of some modern novel, 
but are shocked into interesting helplessness at the sight of 
real distress ; who cannot find time for the active duties of 
life, amid their numerous engagements. A life of useful 


MY GRAITDPARINTS. 


57 


exertion for a worthy end, has neither place in their thoughts 
nor savor of beauty in their eyes. It is their ambition, 
rather, to be admired by some perfumed lover, the round 
of whose duties consists chiefly in the care of his superb 
moustache, his delicate fingers, and gold-headed cane — whose 
existence is alike barren and aimless as their own. Much 
is said of the advancement of the present age, especially as 
respects the education of our daughters, and no doubt justly ; 
they are intelligent and cultivated, the graceful ornaments 
of the drawing-room, the charm of the social circle ; but is 
it not to be feared that, with all the culture, delicacy, and 
refinement of young ladies, of the present day, they fall, in 
some important respects, far below the standard of those 
noblewomen now, alas ! nearly all gathered, as ripe sheaves, 
by the reaper, Death ? 

The elements of a character, strong, high, enduring — one 
that stamps itself upon succeeding gei\erations — what are 
they ! 

Are they created by the forced, hot-bed development of 
brain, by which the pale school-girl of sixteen, urged on by 
the stimulus of vanity and rivalship, to which that age is so 
susceptible, has traversed, with her overwrought, immature 
mind, the circle of the sciences, and can glibly repeat, as 
familiar words, the results of the life-long researches of a 
Newton or a Herschel ! 

The “ well educated 17 young lady has, indeed, glanced 
over the broad field of knowledge ; but neither basis, nor 
strength, has been given to her unformed character ; neither 
discipline nor steadfastness to her inexperienced mind. The 

3 * 


58 


HOME. 


matrons of a former age, making no pretensions to high- 
sounding acquirements, yet knew how to think and reason 
justly ; how to act promptly and nobly ; their powers of 
intellect, heart, and conscience, were so trained as to ena- 
ble them to take enlarged views, and form right conclusions, 
in all the difficult circumstances of that period — teeming 
with great consequences — in which their lot was cast. 


BROTHERS, SISTERS, AND COUSINS. 


59 


CHAPTER X. 

BROTHERS, SISTERS, AND COUSINS. 

“ They grew in beauty side by side, 

They filled one home with glee, 

Their graves are severed far and wide, 

By mount, and stream, and sea.” 

I have before mentioned that my grandfather Lyle owned 
a considerable tract of land, upon which his eldest sons 
early settled, in Way land. 

TJncle Francis Lyle died soon after his father, and his 
brother, my Uncle James, lived. on the farm, which was 
large and productive, some two or three miles from us. 
This uncle was regarded by us with scarcely less reverence 
and affection than our own father. He was of noble and 
commanding appearance, and his knowledge and long resi- 
dence gave him much sway and influence with his townsmen. 
He had twelve children, eight of them daughters ; two mar- 
ried before my remembrance, some of nearly niy own age, 
some much older. 

Their father took much pride in his large, promising 
family ; and justly might such a group be a parent’s delight. 
The girls were handsome, lively, and reckoned sufficiently 
accomplished in the requisites of female education in that 


60 


HOME. 


I may say, that personal beauty was an attribute of my 
mother’s family j finely rounded forms, clear, sparkling eyes, 
and delicate fairness of complexion ; such were my cousins, 
such were our own Grace and Alger. Mary’s beauty was 
of a different style— hers was the full, dark hazel eye, the 
vivid bloom of the Lelands. 

Uncle James’ daughters, though our frequent companions 
and most intimate associates, yet being richer, better 
dressed, and in many respects possessing higher advantages 
than we, were naturally enough not insensible to their 
claims of superiority. 

We were restricted by the straightened circumstances of 
our father’s large and increasing family, and above all by 
the unwillingness manifested by our mother to grant any 
gratification or advantage to my father’s elder children, 
seeming to consider all such expenditures as so -much taken 
from her own. 

My three elder sisters only attended school during the 
winter, yet they were not a whit inferior in their acquire- 
ments to their more favored cousins ; nay, I may not be 
mistaken in saying that they were better educated than most 
of their associates. That my sisters were well informed on 
the various topics of the day, read with keen relish the best 
English authors, and that the letters they wrote did them 
ncr discredit, either in style or execution, may be deemed 
faint praise in comparison with the present broad surface of 
female culture, yet even those acquirements they owed not 
so much to the facilities of learning afforded them, as to the 
care and instructions of our father ; who thus repaid to his 


BROTHERS, SISTERS, AND COUSINS. 61 

children what he had • received from his own excellent 
mother. 

Bessy was, from a child, prudent, thoughtful, and discreet. 
"Wholly devoted to the interest and welfare of the family, 
she early became the main trust and stay of brothers and 
sisters, and even of our father. She was timid, taller than 
Mary, and a little awkward, from the little confidence she 
had in her own power to please — shrinking from strangers, 
shy even with relatives, she loved to stay at home, where 
she was best known and most valued. 

She had, withal, a fund of quiet but jocose humor, ever 
peeping out in an arch look or seemingly grave remark. 
Her intuitive sense of the fitness of things gave her an ex- 
quisite tact in detecting the ridiculous, or the smallest devi- 
ation from propriety in those around her. We all knew, 
and stood somewhat in awe of her sly look, and meaning 
smile. Her care and watch of Alger and little Willie were 
unremitting. When Alger came in, wearied with out-door 
labor — for all had a share as soon as old enough — Bessy 
was on the watch to perform in his place the" many little 
services demanded of him by our inconsiderate mother. 

Our dear Alger was regarded with much tenderness by us 
all, on account of his peculiar infirmity, which was commonly 
attributed to a fright received by our mother shortly before 
his birth. She was one day alone in the house, expecting a 
visit from one of her sisters ; while anxiously awaiting her 
coming, the door of her room suddenly burst open, and a 
woman in tattered garments, wild and haggard in appear- 
ance, stood before her, menacing her with violent words and 


62 


HOME. 


gestures. My mother fled from the house, in extreme ter- 
ror, almost as much bereft of reason as her insane visitor, 
gained the house of the nearest neighbor, but was for soine 
time unable to speak. Alger, her unfortunate son, never 
spoke. His temper and disposition were very lovely, but 
his temperament was keenly susceptible, and during child- 
hood he was at times almost insane, wildly running from 
room to room in a state of high excitement ; at all other 
times he was gentle and affectionate, and most closely resem- 
bled Grace in his delicacy of form and feature. 

His early childhood had been sheltered from, every sorrow 
that a mother’s love could prevent, but now his- open brow 
and sweet face often wore a downcast and clouded expres- 
sion. We all shared in the solicitude lest he should be neg- 
lected or unkindly treated. My father’s watchful eye, and 
judicious management, could only avail for the short portion 
of time when he was free from the demands of out-door 
labor. . 

Our step-mother, probably, thought the tenderness we all 
felt and manifested for our unfortunate brother, overween- 
ing, and unnecessary ; or, perhaps, she hardly considered 
the matter at all, for her errors seemed to arise chiefly from 
thoughtlessness, and a total disregard of every thing not 
connected with her own personal comfort, and from a too 
partial love of her own children, a love, indeed, arising from 
this very selfishness, for she valued them because they were 
her own , instead of seeking their best good with genuine 
affection. 

Our revered father was patient, placid, and forbearing, in 


BROTHERS, SISTERS, AND COUSINS. 63 

word and manner, though many and bitter were the trials 
he endured. Often assailed by peevish complaints, even by 
coarse and abusive language, he achieved a triumph by his 
meekness and calm endurance, when the exercise of his just 
authority as a husband in merited rebuke, would but have 
aggravated the evil. 

I am certain that his two eldest daughters, almost from 
the first, saw and felt for him in these trials, especially 
Bessy, with whom, when a mere girl, he was accustomed to 
advise. 

Mary was sprightly, somewhat volatile,- extremely fond 
of pleasure and gaiety — it must be confessed, averse to 
home duties and cares, but she was always in good humor, 
warm-hearted, and loving, often blamiug herself for leaving 
Bessy to do more than her share, but somehow having a 
chief part in all amusements, laughing, visiting, joking, and 
singing. 

She had a fine voice, and knew songs enough to sing all 
day long. She was often called upon in company, till, to 
avoid further importunity, she would go gaily on, from song 
to song, till her list was completed. 

Sweetly winning in her ways, far removed from pride or 
stiffness of manner, she was almost lowly in her graceful 
affability to all. 

It was Bessy who kept all aprons and stockings in such 
good repair — it was Mary who was the life of every com- 
pany, and a general favorite in the gatherings of the young ; 
nor was it very uncommon for the lively girl to find herself 
in want of some important article just as she was starting 


64 : 


HOME. 


away, and to come to Bessy’s well-kept, though somewhat 
scanty stores, for relief in her difficulties. 

To Hester and. myself, the great object of ambition at 
this time was, to learn to spin. In the large chamber where 
our sisters plied each one a wheel, the merry buzz and the 
cheerful talk went on together, day after day. Sometimes 
we were allowed to be with them, assisting in some part of 
the work ; but we were chiefly employed with an allotted 
task of knitting or sewing, under the eye of our mother, 
until old enough to learn to spin, and to have, each, a wheel 
of her own. 

One day, when about eleven or twelve years old, I had 
been allowed, to my great delight, to spend most of the fore- 
noon with my sisters. I had learned to manage the wheel, 
and Was expecting one for myself as soon as it could be con- 
veniently procured. 

In the meantime, Hester and I were employed in making 
into sheets a long web newly bleached. Oh, how tired we' 
were of the long seams ! but they must be done by us, for 
other and more difficult work was demanded of the older 
members of the household, so we worked away with weary 
fingers, while the summer breeze came in at the open door, 
and glimpses of the waving trees in the orchard, and the 
bright sky beyond, made our hearts spring like the bent 
bow as we longed to bound away on the green grass, and 
breathe the fresh, sweet air. I had, indeed, plied my needle 
diligently, thinking of the pleasure I should have in being 
constantly with the older girls, when I had my promised 
wheel, and with a womanly sense of being then no longer 


BROTHERS, SISTERS, AND COUSINS. 65 

classed with the children, and having a daily task upon the 
never-ending seams. Thus busily thinking, my work had 
sped well, but poor Hester’s was quite behind ; her eye 
often wandered, she broke her thread, pricked her fingers, 
fidgeted in her seat, and, worst of all, surveyed despairingly 
the long piece, still uncompleted. Suddenly she exclaimed, 

“ There is Nabby coming across the field, with a tin pail 
in her hand ! Oh, mother ! mayn’t I run and meet 
her ?” 

“ No ! sit still ! She has come to racket and play, I 
warrant ; but you shan’t either of you leave your -work till 
it is done.” 

“ Mine is ’most done,” said I. Hester began to look 
grave, for Nabby was her especial playmate, and meantime 
she entered. 

“ Heyday ! here’s little black-eyed Nab ! I don’t know 
what will happen, when she is grown up and the beaux 
come round !” 

The little girl’s eyes sparkled anew at this address from 
my mother, who well knew how to please children, though 
by no means always judicious in her remarks to them. 

“ I have come to stay an hour, and play with Hester. 
I’ve been tending the baby all day, and he’s been so cross.” 

“ No ; Hester must finish her sewing. You may go and 
play, Anna, if you have done yours.” 

“ Wait just a little while,” pleaded Hester, now applying 
herself vigorously ; “ What is your pail for, Nabby ?” 

“ Oh, mother sent to know if you would lend her some 
flour. Father promised to get some, but he didn’t, and Un- 


HOME, 


66 

cle William came last night. Father will get some -pretty 
soon, I guess.” 

My mother did not look very well pleased, but took the 
pail. In truth, it was not a strange thing for Nab by to 
come to borrow one article or another, and borrowing was 

frequently equivalent to begging. Our cousin Hannah, her 

. 

mother, -was poor, often much tried, sometimes poorly sup- 
plied with even the necessaries of life. Her husband was 
master of a lucrative trade, and might have provided well 
for his family, but spent too many evenings at the village 
tavern, and it became rather a matter of chance whether 
their pantry contained either bread or meat. 

“ May we go up stairs, mother, till Hester is done ?” 

“ No ; the- girls hinder themselves enough by their own 
talk, without your going up to help them.” 

But Nabby was determined to go up stairs, and by dint 
of coaxing, she succeeded, highly delighted with the permis- 
sion, and so, in truth, was I. She was bold and forward, 
asking questions about everything, ransacking the chamber, 
and peering into every corner. 

“ Here, little miss, you must not open that chest,” said 
Mary, “ I allow no one but myself to do that.” 

“ Tell me what is in it,” persisted Nabby ; “I want to 
see your things in there.” 

“ Come here, Nabby,” said Bessy, “ I want to tell you 
something ; do you know how your eyes grow bigger and 
bigger all the time, while you look at other people’s things ? 
X think they are about large enough now. I should not 
want them to grow faster than the rest of you, and they 


BROTHERS, SISTERS, AND COUSINS. 67 

will, if you do so, and then people will say, ‘ there’s Nabby 
Great-eyes !’” 

“ You don’t know who has come,” said the little girl, 
trying to turn the conversation. 

“ Come !” said Bessy, “ I suppose a great many people 
have come somewhere.” 

“ Oh, well ! somebody came to our house yesterday, from 
down below. It’s Uncle William, and he said he was com- 
ing to see you to-night, Mary.” 

Mary’s bright blush set me to thinking, for Nabby’s Un- 
cle William, when in town, had called over more than once, 
and made himself very agreeable. 

“ Yow,” said Bessy, laughing, “ you are a wise child — 
do you expect us to believe you ?” 

“ Oh, fie 1 Nabby,” said Mary, “what a story you are 
telling. I shall make it a point in future to believe only 
half of what you say.” 

“ Well — he asked mother if you were at home. I heard 
him” 

“ Then just half of it is true,” said Bessy 

“ Besides, I heard mother say something to him about 
coming here a great deal.” 

“ So does Cousin David come here, almost every day,” I 
interposed, “ and he always walks home from meeting with 
Mary, every Sunday, too.” 

11 Hush, Anna,” said Mary, “ you don’t know what you 
are talking about.” Just then I was called down stairs for 
something, and finding Hester crying over her unfinished 
work, I told her I would do it for her, if mother would let 


68 


HOME. 


me take it up stairs, which, with some reluctance, she per- 
mitted. Hester ran gladly out to play with Nabby, while I 
was well satisfied to stay and listen to my sisters’ conversa- 
tion. Mary and Bessy began to talk of Cousin Hannah and 
her trials, Nabby’s smartness and neglected training, and 
the bad influence of the examples by which she was sur- 
rounded. Mary’s work, whilom apt to linger, did not now ; 
her wheel buzzed merrily, amid some quiet fun on the part 
of Bessy, and much gleeful teazing by me, especially as I 
chanced to find out that Mary contrived to put a nice piece 
of new cheese silly into Nabby’s pail when she left. 

Before evening Mary’s work was done, herself made tidy, 
and, sure enough, William Homer came, and I fancy it was 
rather a late hour in the evening when he took his leave. 
The next afternoon he came again, mounted upon a fine 
horse, and leading another, for a ride ; and blushing Mary, 
looking bright and beautiful, rode up the quiet lane with 
him, just as the sun was setting over the top of Pine Moun- 
tain. 

The warm glow of sunset was all around ; the burnished 
tree tops, the deep shadows on the green fields, the melody 
of singing birds, all found echo and were reflected in their 
young hearts, as, gaily_ talking, they disappeared over the 
brow of the hill. 


DREAMS AND REALITIES. 


69 


CHAPTER XI. 

DREAMS AND REALITIES. 

“ Rarest ol all things on earth is the union in which both, by their contrasts, 
make harmonious their blending ; each supplying the defects of the helpmate, and 
completing by fusion, one strong human soul.” 


William Homer’s parents were old residents - of Wayland. 
The eldest son, Nabby’s father, has been already mentioned; 
the younger, William, was smart, intelligent, but rather gay, 
so that he was termed by some, “ a wild young man he 
was very handsome, almost fascinating in his pleasing 
address and easy politeness, not lessened by his residence 
“ down below,” that is, in or near Boston, where he had 
obtained a situation in a dry goods store. Mary’s spright- 
liness suited well with his gaiety and high spirits, and that 
he was pleasing to her, there could be no doubt. But my 
father’s air of gravity and reserve in respect to him, notwith- 
standing the frequent, and often unseemly jests of our step- 
mother, caused Mary some anxious thoughts ; and I used 
to hear her at night — for I occupied a bed in the same 
chamber — in earnest conversation with Bessy. This was 
but the commencement of her first anxiety, and to Bessy 
she instinctively turned for counsel. No sisters could be 
more closely united in feeling, more confidential and commu- 
cative to each other in their affairs . 


70 


HOME. 


This confidence was not extended in the smallest degree 
to our mother ; nor joys nor griefs were entrusted to her 
keeping, nor could they have been, with safety. 

I do not think we ever failed in outward obedience and 
respect towards her, yet, that she possessed not the key to 
our deeper feelings, was early and thoroughly understood 
by us all. 

She herself marked a division, so to speak, by her com- 
monest words and actions, between herself and her own 
children on the one hand, and. her husband and step-children 
on the other. It was not uncommon for her, in the morn- 
ing, after the family breakfast of plain but wholesome food 
was dispatched, and the family had dispersed to their diffe- 
rent tasks, to prepare some little delicacy for herself and 
her own little daughter. I recollect one incident, not un- 
like others of common occurrence. An altercation had 
arisen at the dinner table between Willie and our youngest 
brother, Royal. My father, probably from seeing the 
younger most in fault, reproved him. His mother instantly 
interposed, exclaiming, while she caressed her son, “You 
take care of your child, and I will of mine 1” 

“ Why,” said I, “ isn’t Royal father’s child too ?” 

But I was bid to be silent, for her husband never permit- 
ted the least improper or disrespectful treatment of her by 
his children. Besides this, her carriage and deportment were 
too often subversive alike of the dignity of matron and 
mother. She. was perpetually lowering herself by querulous 
trifling, petty contests with the children, or bandying low 
jests with the hired workmen, enjoying with much seeming 


DREAMS AND REALITIES. 


71 


relish the coarse laugh and the rough retort. We were 
ofteu mortified by the negligence, even uncoutlmess of her 
dress ; for in this, as in other respects, she loved to stand 
upon the outer verge of decorum, and slight the thousand 
little decencies of life and manners. 

One day, when in one of her worst plights, Deacon Peters 
and his wife, special friends of my father, and she a lady of 
much refinement, came unexpectedly to visit. When my 
mother first perceived them, she stood almost aghast at 
being surprised in such a predicament ; but, as they ap- 
proached the house on tlieir horses, a sudden thought struck 
her ; she caught out her skirts with either hand, like an 
opera girl, struck up a lively tune, danced a jig in the open 
door, and skipped out to meet them. Mirth and hilarity 
followed this ludicrous performance, which, however well it 
might have succeeded as a ruse to conceal her chagrin, 
seemed more in keeping with the character of a harlequin 
than with that of a dignified and courteous lady, welcoming 
valued guests. Her nature lacked the quality of earnest, 
reflective seriousness, no less than a nice perception of pro- 
priety. The contrast in habits of thought and feeling be- 
tween her and my father was great. She could neither 
lighten nor share his burdens ; but upon his faithful daugh- 
ter, his Bessy, he could and did rely for constant aid, and 
even counsel, in his many cares. 

She has since told me, that he was accustomed to con- 
verse with her freely upon family matters, and that many 
a time, when riding to church on horseback behind him, she 
was alfected to tears, with the thought that young, inexpe- 


72 


HOME. 


rienced, and unfit as she felt herself to be, her father should 
seek her advice and make her the repository of his paternal 
cares and anxieties. My much-loved, honored father ! how 
unwearied were his cares, his love, and his efforts for our 
good ! How vividly his .kind, grave face rises to my recol- 
lection, and with it come his words of tender counsel, of 
wise caution, or reproof, almost always in quotations from 
the scriptures. His acquaintance with the Bible was so 
intimate that some apposite proverb or word of exhortation 
would seem to rise spontaneously to his lips, suited to every 
occasion ; casually passing through the room, perhaps, some 
passage gently repeated would check our foolish jesting, 
idle talk, or noisy glee, with an effect which has proved great 
and lasting. The truth thus early implanted in the “seed 
time” of life, applied to daily circumstances in our childish 
feelings and actions, formed the very life of the moral nature 
of his children — nay, constituted the foundation, deep and 
strong, of the religious character of later years. Even in 
thoughtless girlhood, amid all its heedless waywardness, 
when tempted to indulge in envious or unkind feelings, how 
often have these words of wisdom flashed across my mind, 
with all the tender and solemn sanction not alone of an 
earthly father, but of an Heavenly ! 

Nor 'was this influence less salutary on others. Neighbor 
Fleming, significantly termed “ shiftless,” who occupied a 
miserable hut near by, and was literally taken care of by 
my father, came one day with a child in his arms, complain- 
ing bitterly of the behavior of his wife, for they often disa- 
greed ; presently she appeared with another child, alleging 


DREAMS AND REALITIES. 


73 


that her husband was alway finding fault, let her do what 
she would. My father gravely repeated, “ Better is a din- 
ner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred 
therewith.” “ The beginning of strife is as when one letteth 
out water,” and similar quotations — his only words. On 
another like occasion, his answer was, “ Tug at the beam, 
neighbor Fleming, tug at the beam, and the mote will dis- 
appear.” 


4 


7 4 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“down below.” 

In due time my wheel was procured, and Hester, too, was 
initiated into the spinning department, for, as the season 
advanced, there was greater press than usual in the house- 
hold work. 

Bessy had, with some difficulty, obtained permission to 
make a web of fine table linen, being desirous of learning to 
weave this, the most difficult fabric of home manufacture. 

Cousin Lucy, a niece of my father’s, much valued by him, 
and beloved by us all, who was frequently at our house, 
came now, and spent a week to instruct Bessy in the nice 
and complicated process of weaving it, for she was well 
skilled in the art ; and with much' satisfaction a long web 
of the firm texture, variously figured, was laid on the grass, 
and carefully tended, till it rivalled the snow in whiteness. 

After this, came the work of preparing winter clothing j 
the wool was to be picked, cleansed, carded, and spun, then 
dyed and woven, that we might be in readiness for the rigors 
of the severe cold ; labors much more arduous and disagree- 
able than those of preparing the flax. 

This year brought some changes in the usually unvarying 
tenor of things in our quiet family. Our dear Grace came 
home on a visit of some weeks. I should have mentioned, 
that she had lived most of the time since the death of our 


“ DO WIT BELOW.” 75 

mother, with our Aunt Hilliard, at Alstead, New Hamp- 
shire. Aunt Hilliard was a younger sister of our own 
mother, a noble, true-hearted woman, and well and tenderly 
had she cared for and instructed her sister’s child. IJncle 
Hilliard was a physician, at first settling in Wayland, he 
had afterwards removed to the still newer region of Che- 
shire county, and there established himself. 

Oh, how glad were we to see our own darling sister, so 
long separated from us ! She was joyous as a bird in 
spring ; with a clear, dancing blue eye, lightsome step, and 
airy motion, she seemed to have a glow of happiness about 
her enlivening the whole house. None was more happy in 
her return than poor Alger, who said, in his expressive lan- 
guage of signs, “When Grace comes into the room, the sun 
shines.” He was nearest to her in age, and from childhood 
they had been special companions. 

Grace herself was almost wild with joy at being again 
with us, giving us lively accounts of her home in Alstead, 
often making us laugh by her witty descriptions of what she 
had seen. She had much skill and ingenuity with her nee- 
dle, and was of essential service in that respect, though she 
was then only a child of fourteen. 

But the principal event in the family this autumn, was 
Mary’s first visit to Boston, to spend a few weeks with Aunt 
Hastings. IJncle Hastings was a hardware merchant, with 
a comfortable income. They lived in some style, in a large, 
square, wooden house, at the South End. The dwelling is 
still standing, though having undergone in modern times 
considerable renovation. Aunt Anna Hastings was ad- 


76 


HOME. 


mired, loved, reverenced by us as quite the standard of per- 
fection in almost all respects. She was one of the most win- 
ning and lovely women I ever saw, as well as the kindest of 
aunts. Bessy, her only daughter, was a little younger than 
Mary ; her son was older, and remarkable for his personal 
beauty. To make a visit to this beloved aunt was quite the 
summit of our wishes, and it suited well with the gaiety of 
Mary’s disposition to mingle in the exciting scenes, and 
witness the life and animation of the city. The journey was 
an important event in our retired country life, and there was 
much grave consultation on the matter of preparation. No 
pains were spared to make her simple wardrobe presentable 
in the eyes of her cousins, yet she found she must content * 
herself to rest in the comfortable conclusion to which 
Bessy’s good sense conducted her. 

“ You are a farmer’s daughter,” said she, “ as every one 
who sees you will know ; you will not be expected to appear 
in the fashion and finery of rich city girls.” 

“ But,” said Mary, “ I should be sorry to have Cousin 
Bessy ashamed to introduce me to her associates.” 

“ Oh, that is not likely at all,” rejoined Bessy, “it is no 
dishonor to a country girl to appear in a country garb, and 
if anything is really wanting to make your dress respecta- 
ble, Aunt Hastings will tell you. After all, Mary, you 
must, no doubt, depend on something better than fine dress 
to give you favor with others.” 

This conversation was the evening before Mary was to 
leave. We were seated on a spot half-way between the 
house and the barn. It was a ledge just appearing above 


“down below.” 77 

the grass, and forming a short, abrupt descent, where we 
often sat, or reclined, on summer evenings, and waited for 
the cows to come home to be milked. While Mary and 
Bessy were talking, father came from the barn on his way 
to the house, and paused where we were. Poiutiug to the 
glowing sunset sky, and the distant trees resting on its 
bright bosom, he said : 

“ That glorious scene brings Heaven to my mind, with its 
peace, its blessedness ; how mean and trilling are the things 
of earth, in comparison with Heaven’s glories ! Keep God, 
and the world to come, in your thoughts, my children, and 
the little annoyances and mortifications you will meet, will 
have small power to disturb you. Remember this, my 
daughter, in leaving your home ; new scenes will doubtless 
bring new trials and temptations. Learn all you can ; your 
aunt will aid and guide you in whatever is necessary for 
your respectable appearance among her friends. Esteem it 
of little consequence, comparatively, what is thought of 
your dress, but be careful that all have reason to approve 
your conduct.” 

Then taking out his well-worn purse, and putting some 
pieces of money into her hand, he said : 

“ Here is a trifle more I can spare you.” 

“ Oh 1 father,” said Mary, “ you have given me so much 
already ! I am afraid it is selfish for me to take any 
more.” 

Her father looked at her with a kind smile, as he said, “ It 
will not seem like ‘so much’ when you see so many things 


78 


HOME. 


you would like in Boston, and you need not think you are 
selfish, for I don’t.” 

As we walked towards the house, I saw a big tear roll 
down Mary’s cheek, but she quickly brushed it away, as 
she caught the anxious glance of Bessy, and all that even- 
ing she seemed determined to keep up our spirits, by her 
lively chat, and cheerful, hopeful prophecies of her brilliant 
debut in Boston. The next morning she left us. 


A LITTLE LOYE AND A LITTLE TROUBLE. 79 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A LITTLE LOVE, AND A LITTLE TROUBLE. 
" Every life must have its own romance.” 


Mary went away buoyant with hope and expectation ; 
she had the happy faculty of extracting pleasure from every 
source within her reach ; but her anticipated enjoyment was 
somewhat clouded by a circumstance of which I knew no- 
thing till long afterwards, but which had an important bear- 
ing upon her destiny in after life. 

A week had passed, and she had been the happiest of the 
nappy, each day receiving new delight in visiting, chape- 
roned by her cousins, the various objects of interest. Every- 
thing had the charm of freshness and novelty to her eyes ; 
the sumptuous dwellings, the brilliant shops, with their win- 
dows temptingly decked with the new, the costly, and the 
beautiful. Then, how delightful the evening promenade in 
the Mall, among crowds of people, well dressed, looking 
happy and elegant — all was like enchantment to her unprac- 
tised vision. 

One day a ride to Roxbury was proposed, a family carry- 
all was engaged, and all were to be ready as soon as dinner 
was over. Light-hearted, and happy, she was singing 
through the hall as she went up to dress for the ride, when 
a knock was heard* at the door, and from the top of the 


80 


HOME. 


stairs she heard a well-known voice inquire for “ Miss Mary 
Leland.” Her heart beat loudly as she went down to meet 
her old admirer, William Homer, who, hearing she was in 
the city, had called to see her. A variety of contending 
emotions flushed her cheeks, and deprived her of all pre- 
sence of mind j maiden timidity and bashfulness, joined to 
fear of her aunt, whose ideas of nicest propriety she knew, 
with an almost unacknowledged consciousness that the hand- 
some young man whom she looked upon with so much favor, 
was, after all, not the character to meet the approbation of 
her friends as a visitor to herself. 

Feeling at the moment, that she could not invite him in, 
to be recognized by her friends as her suitor, she treated 
him with coolness, almost with incivility. 

He saw her embarrassment, but knew not its cause. So, 
after a word or two, coldly spoken, he took his leave, feel- 
ing his presence unwelcome, both grieved and indignant at 
his repulse. Poor Mary crept up stairs, overcome by a 
whirl of feelings. A sense of relief that he was gone 
unseen by any of the family, was soon succeeded by 
great uneasiness at the recollection of his look of chagrin 
and vexation. Reproaching herself bitterly for the cold and 
uncivil demeanor which so belied her heart, she burst into 
tears. Soon, however, consoling herself with the idea that 
she should make all right at some future meeting, she dried 
her eyes. 

Though her thoughts wandered, and a shadow was upon 
her spirit at first, she became cheerful, and even animated, by 
her ride. Roxbury was at that time a succession of fine 


A LITTLE LOVE AND A LITTLE TROUBLE. 81 

farms, with comfortable, and even elegant dwellings. The 
scenery w r as charming, and Mary’s love of nature was all 
aroused. It was, too, the early home of her own mother, the 
place of dear associations, and of many valued friends. The 
next day, as she sat at work with cousin Bessy, a letter was 
brought to her by the penny-postman. The handwriting 
made her cheek change color, and her hand trembled so she 
dared not open it. Covering her confusion by a question 
about the messenger, she escaped to her room, and found it 
to be what she had anticipated — a letter from her indignant 
admirer. It was written in great agitation, and in all the 
bitterness of wounded affection. He declared that he needed 
no more proof of her indifference, than was given in her 
reception of him the preceding day ; that he would trouble 
her no more with his attentions or his presence, though all 
his cherished hopes were blasted ; that his life would hence- 
forth be a burden too valueless to be worth the trouble of 
preserving ; and much more, in the strong, passionate lan- 
guage of resentment, injured feeling, and disappointment. 

This was trouble, indeed, for poor Mary ; his fine ap- 
pearance and winning manners had captivated her youthful 
fancy ; her heart was touched by his regard for herself, mani- 
fested even in their childhood. In many of the sunniest 
hours of her joyous young life he had been associated ; and 
did not his image find place, too, in her bright visions of the 
future ? That future, indeed, she had but vaguely pictured 
to herself, nor were her thoughts and feelings in regard to 
him very clearly defined in her own mind. She lived in the 
happy Present. 


4 * 


82 


HOME. 


The period of girlhood is that of quick susceptibility, nay, 
of strong, o’er-mastering, passionate feeling ; but it is also 
the time when fancy and imagination bear sway — subtle 
Fancy weaving its airy web in the warm tints of imagina- 
tion’s bright coloring. 

The true depth of earnest, serious affection, must have 
underlying it, the higher, purer, stronger powers of the soul, 
that the judgment may, in its sweep, bear along the passions 
and emotions in delightful harmony. 

This was Mary’s first love, and though it was the love of 
the girl, rather than of the woman, it was still deep and 
true. Sometimes she half resolved to write to him, desiring 
him to come to her, and then to explain all, and seek recon- 
ciliation ; but her maidenly pride forbade. With all her 
love for him, and her regret for her unkind treatment, she 
could but feel that he had been hasty, and unjust ; that, as 
he had left her in a fret, she knew not how to stoop to win 
him back ; but neither did she know how to bear this 
estrangement for such a trifle. She was sorely tried, and 
her evident unhappiness, swollen eyes, and air so different 
from her usual buoyancy, could not escape notice ; anxious 
looks and inquiries only added to her trouble, until at 
length her aunt, taking a favorable occasion, when Bessy 
was spending the day abroad, set herself seriously to probe 
the wound. In a kind, considerate manner, partly by affec- 
tionate entreaty, partly by her right, as standing for the 
time in place of mother, she drew from Mary a reluctant 
confession of her feelings, and the cause of her present cloud 
of sorrow. 


A LITTLE LOVE AND A LITTLE TROUBLE. 


83 


Aunt Hastings read the letter attentively, and after a 
few minutes’ thoughtful silence, said kindly, 

“ I quite sympathize with you, my love, in regretting your 
incivility. There is no keener suffering to a generous mind 
than regret for a wrong done ; it was due to yourself, and 
due to him, as a gentleman and friend, to treat him with 
kindness and courtesy. But, my dear girl,” she continued, 
“ this letter betrays great lack of a candid, manly temper, . 
and a want of high principles of action, making all due 
allowance for the strength of his feelings. The young man 
who would suffer himself to be hurried along by such a tor- 
rent of mad passion as his letter betrays, is unfit to be 
trusted with the happiness of another. He is not the one 
for you — think no more of him.” 

“But, aunt,” sobbed Mary, “ he is so unhappy !” 

“Hot so unhappy, perhaps, as you imagine, my dear,” 
quietly rejoined her aunt ; “ such extravagant misery is not 
apt to be lasting or deep ; if, as I judge, he sports the cha- 
racter of the light-minded, fancy-flitting beau, you can well 
dispense with any further attentions from him, and he will 
soon recover his spirits. What is your father’s opinion of 
him ?” she continued. 

Mary colored, then hesitatingly answered, “He never 
said much about him.” 

Aunt Hastings went on. “ It is of the first consequence 
that you be able to look up with respect, and repose perfect 
trust in the man you call your husband ; this can only con- 
sist with steady, thoughtful self-restraint, subjecting the 
mind and character to the rule of firm principle. Love, not 


84 : 


HOME. 


founded upon these qualities, is as evanescent as the dew on 
the summer flower. Can you thus respect and trust Wil- 
liam Homer ? Do you belieVe him to be under the control 
of strong principle ? Think and judge calmly, my dear.” 

Mary was obliged to acknowledge, when her serious judg- 
ment was thus appealed to, that some points in his charac- 
ter did not please herself, and that she was by no means 
sure that his attentions were approved by her father. 

“ But I can’t help wishing this had not happened,” she 
said, sorrowfully. 

“My dear Mary,” said her aunt, kindly, “ I am satisfied, 
quite satisfied that it is best as it is. Nay, I am disposed to 
regard this as one of those turns in Providence, in which, 
by a trivial act or circumstance, a new direction or different 
character is given to a long train of events, perhaps a whole 
life. All our ways are directed by our Father above,” she 
exclaimed, reverently looking up, “ nor can we advance a 
step, but at his bidding ” 

A glow of earnestness suffused her expressive countenance 
as she added, thoughtfully, “ How different from the whirl 
mid excitement of passing scenes and present emotions, is 
the cooler and more distant view that retrospection gives ! 
A few years hence, you may look back on this occurrence, 
now so painful to you, my dear girl, as one of the most for- 
tunate circumstances of your life. It is only in scanning the 
backward path, that the cloud becomes luminous. We 
walk in darkness seeing but the footsteps we are treading, 
and that imperfectly ; all objects before us appear in gigan- 
tic and fanciful shape, like a landscape enveloped in fog and 


A LITTLE LOVE AND A LITTLE TROUBLE. 


85 


mist ; while behind us the long pathway, however winding 
or rugged, beams in light.” 

This conversation was not without its effect on Mary’s 
mind. It revealed clearly to her, what she had before dimly 
seen — that William Homer was deficient in some of the ele- 
ments essential to a noble, manly character ; and, though 
her heart still pleaded in his favor, her reason and con- 
science declared that her aunt was right in saying — “ It is 
best as it is.” 


86 


HOME. 


CHAPTE R XIV. 

COUNTRY SCENES. 


“ You live, sir, in these dales, a quiet life ; 

Your years make up one peaceful family.” 

Mary returned home from Boston somewhat sooner than 
she at first intended, Uncle James Lyle being unexpectedly 
at the city on business. He performed the journey on horse- 
back, then the usual mode, leading by the bridle father’s 
old grey mare, for Mary’s use. Long as well as lonely .was 
the way, two or three days being occupied in travelling the 
same route now passed by railroad in a few hours. At that 
time, neither wagons, nor carriages of any sort, were in 
common use in Way land. The weekly mail was brought 
upon the back of a single horse, where now the daily car 
carries the news of these more noisy times in papers and let- 
ters, by the hundred weight. About this time we were 
delighted to receive a visit from our cousin, Lyman (*ove, 
who lived upon one of the West India islands. His mother, 
Aunt Cass, was a dear sister of my father’s. Her house 
was near the church, and there my father invariably spent 
the intermission between services on Sunday ; and it was a 
season of sweet enjoyment and Christian converse, for they 
were both one, in tender affection and devoted piety. 

Aunt Cass had been twice married, and Cousin Lyman 


# 


COUJSTTKT SCENES. 


87 


was the son of her first husband. He had married a Creole 
lady, and had with him on this visit, his two little sons. 
Funny, little, dark-complexioned, frolicsome fellows we 
thought them. It chanced once, when they were staying at 
our house for a few days, that there fell, during the night, 
a little light snow, as sometimes premonitory signals of win- 
ter will come, in the latter part of autumn, while the weather 
is yet mild. In the morning Sidney, the eldest, having gone 
out early, came bounding into the house in wild excitement, 
screaming to his brother, 

“Oh, Martin ! Martip ! come out here — the ground is all 
covered with white sugar 1” 

Their wonder and curiosity about the snow — for they had 
never before seen any — afforded us much amusement. 

During this visit, Aunt Cass’s daughter, Lucy Cass, was 
married ; but of the wedding, or its festivities, I remember 
nothing. The event was chiefly memorable to us, because 
our sister Hester, Lucy’s especial favorite, accompanied her 
to her new home in Rutland, Vermont. She stayed there 
more than a year, and always retained a vivid recollection 
of “ Father Haynes,” the well-known colored preacher of 
that place, and of her sport with his little girls. When 
she returned home she managed her horse without assist- 
ance, during the whole ride of sixty or seventy miles, riding 
fifty miles in one day, which made an impression on my 
mind, as being esteemed a remarkable feat for a girl so 
young, for she was not quite eleven years old. 

The cold weather came on apace, and no period of my 
childhood or youth rises before me in brighter, warmer 


88 


HOME. 


coloring than this. We were a merry group of sisters ; 
Mary and Bessy, Grace and myself, occupied one chamber, 
and at night, after retiring, was the special time of sisterly 
conferences on all topics. We all attended school together, 
and when the rays of the early morning sun sparkled all 
over the dazzling winter prospect, the expanse of field and 
hill, then would Grace and I bound over the snow, piled on 
either side of the path, often so hard frozen and firm that 
we could slide down the drifted hillocks, or run as we listed 
over the smooth, shining surface of the fields. Oh ! I can 
see again the slight, flexible figure of Grace, as, swift as a 
fawn, with a wild ringing laugh, she would start on a race, 
and leave me far behind at the first ; but I was fleet and 
nimble too, and besides, she would soonest loose breath, for 
her slender person could not oppose the rude Borean breeze 
so well as my shorter and firmer knit frame. Oh, how the 
keen, .cold, cutting air made the young blood dance in our 
veins, raising our spirits to the most hilarious delight, as we 
careered along on our way, to gain betimes the old square- 
roofed brick school-house. 

There the uproar of shouting boys, noisy talk and glee, 
rose and swelled ever louder and louder as the moment 
neared for the master’s grave approach, with rod and 
ferule, to still the tumult into awe-stricken silence and 
order. 

There was a singing-school, too, that winter, the first I 
ever attended. That was pleasure, indeed, and neither 
hunger nor cold were felt in our enjoyment of its hours. 
We lived quite too far away to go home and return again 


4 


COUNTRY SCENES. 


89 


for the evening, so, if it chanced that a morsel of bread and 
cheese was left of our dinner, we were glad ; if not, we 
could dispense with our supper, without a thought, and 
enjoy, oh, how much ! the gathering with our mates around 
the large open fire-place, as the ruddy glow faded from the 
west. As the night shut in, the blazing fire of huge logs 
piled one above another, roared in the ample chimney, cast- 
ing its red glare on the motley group assembled around it, 
talking, singing, or, perchance, whispering fearful tales to 
the credulous, suggested by the darkness without, or the 
strange, gigantic, flickering shadows moving and darkening 
on the walls within. 

The capacious chimney was built in the wall, opposite 
the door, leaving a large recess on either side ; one was 
the receptacle of the formidable pile of logs for the even- 
ing’s consumption ; in the other was the smaller pile of 
pitch-pine knots, contributed from various quarters, “of 
the best kind, carefully selected.” This mode of lighting 
an apartment, so novel in our day, was then quite common, 
being both economical and convenient, and as the dry, 
resinous wood blazed fiercely up, every nook and corner 
became bright and cheerful as they were filled with the 
brilliant light. 

c * 

For those who loved music as well as I did, where could 

be found such a whole evening full of enjoyment as was here 
afforded ? The strong, hearty voices of the young men and 
maidens rolled out the notes of Coronation, and Russia, and 
chased each other through the labyrinthian passages of 
Exhortation, Sardinia, and Delight. 


90 


HOME. 


Are the parties and formal visits, which now usurp its 
place, really any pleasanter, with their chit-chat and fash- 
ionable small-talk, than was the singing-school, where were 
commenced and cemented lasting friendships, aye, and loves 
too, for half the “courting” was done there in those primi- 
tive New England times. 


SUITORS. 


91 



CHAPTER XV. 



SUITORS. 


“ That heai-t, methinks, 



Were of strange mould, which kept no cherished print 
Of early, happy times, when life was fresh, 

And love and innocence made holiday.” 


Mary, strange to say, required solicitation to induce her 
to join in the singing, 'front to be her delight. A change 
had come over her spirit, her character was becoming deeper 
in its tone, more earnest, she was intent upon her studies, 
improving each spare moment. Evening after evening was 
now spent in poring over problems with the teacher, both 
absorbed in study, or conversation on various knotty points. 

The teacher’s visits, indeed, became so frequent, as win- 
ter sped, as to excite some doubts as to their disinterested 
nature ; but, to Mary herself, they were at that time only 
the means of more rapid improvement in her favorite studies. 

This teacher was the only son of Colonel Lyman, who 
occupied a farm in a remote part of Wayland. The father 
had served with honor in the Revolutionary war, was a, high- 
toned gentleman, priding himself on his standing and charac- 
ter. He was, indeed, regarded with a respect bordering 
upon awe, by many of his neighbors. His farm was valua- 
ble, his house the best in Wayland, being built in antique 
English style ; large, square entrance hall, long kitchen, 


92 


HOME. 


and spacious, wainscoted rooms, an ample, well-furnished 
farm-house ; in later years the home of Mary. 

Col. Lyman employed several workmen, and was accus- 
tomed to take his meals with them, though always preserv- 
ing much commanding dignity in his demeanor. His wife, 
usually designated “ Madam Lyman,” was extremely penu- 
rious, careless of the opinion of others, with vast energy of 
character, chiefly displayed in her thrifty housekeeping and 
good management. I have heard my father relate an anec- 
dote characteristic of her. At the evening meal, which was 
ordinarily of bread and milk, her husband’s dish was distin- 
guished by a silver spoon, while the workmen were served 
with pewter. On one occasion, one of the men adroitly 
slipped his own spoon into the colonel’s dish, and exchanged 
the bowls. 

No sooner had the colonel commenced his repast, than, 
stopping short, he pushed back his chair, then instantly con- 
ceiving the trick and its motive, he angrily exclaimed, 

“Wife ! have you given us skimmed milk to eat ? New 
milk is none too good for me ; and my workmen shall fare 
as well as I do.” 

With some confusion, Madam Lyman took away the 
dishes, and re-filled them with richer and more palatable 
milk and it was long before she tried again that method 
of saving. She was fond of money, seldom missed an oppor- 
tunity of making or saving a penny, nor was she over-scru- 
pulous as to the means of doing it. They had four daughters. 
The eldest was the wife of a thrifty farmer living near us. 
I remember her for her high, whining tone of voice, sound- 


SUITORS. 


93 


ing as if she were just ready to cry, and for her habit of 
interspersing “ dear” in her conversation, very freely, to 
every one, and on every occasion. She was much like her 
mother ; in her eyes no amount of moral excellence could 
compensate for the want of worldly advantages. She, con- 
sequently, was not well pleased with her brother’s intimacy 
in our family, when she became aware of his liking for Mary. 

The next daughter, Xenia Lyman, was observable for her 
high pretensions, lofty air and carriage, o’erlooking and o’er- 
topping all her companions. She was aspiring, and really 
talented, and was subsequently principal of a celebrated 
female seminary in Boston, where she remained till her 
death. I well remember her tall commanding form at 
church, as, with head erect, she walked with slow and 
stately step the length of the aisle to her father’s pew. Her 
two sisters usually followed, Mary, with the most meek, 
down-looking, unpretending air, and Abby, taller than Mary, 
though the younger, an awkward girl, with a heedless, wan- 
dering gait, her teeth protruding through her half-opened 
lips. Few then would have seen, in the uncouth girl, the 
germ of the noble, accomplished woman she afterwards be- 
came. With her is associated the memory of some of my 
happiest days, and she is still living, honored and useful in 
one of our most favored cities. 

Our teacher, Samuel Lyman, an only son, was early im- 
bued with ideas of family importance, but was a young man 
of noble, elevated character, with high regard to honor and 
upright principles of action. He was somewhat awkward, 
and not very prepossessing in appearance, yet he was well 


94 : 


HOME. 


educated and sensible, chiefly noticeable, however, for a cer- 
tain pompous manner of expressing himself, rolling high- 
sounding words out from the depths of his throat, seeming, 
but for his perfect naturalness and simplicity, like inflated, 
ridiculous bombast. 

There where others, too, who were applicants for Mary’s 
favor, and who sought to renew her interest in her former 
gaieties ; for, though cheerful and even gay at home, since 
her return from Boston, and her chapter of heart experi- 
ence there, she had become indifferent to company, and to 
attentions from other admirers. Our cousin, David Leland, 
a familiar guest, had long manifested a preference for her, 
and would have compassed sea and land to win her heart, 
but he well knew his wishes were vain. Charles Coke, too, 
was a frequent visitor, though in quite a general way ; in- 
deed, he seemed to take more notice of Grace and myself, 
simple, mirth-loving little girls, as we were, than of Mary 
or Bessy. ' He was just about Mary’s age, rather handsome, 
and even then spoken of as a fine young man. He spoke 
slowly, in a mild, grave tone, and thought seemed to sit 
waiting for utterance on his broad, serious brow. His gen- 
tleness, sincerity, and sweet, cordial manner, won our hearts. 

His father, Mr. Jacob Coke, was an early resident, and 
occupied the finest situation in Yalley Brook. He owned 
a large farm, several mills, and was reputed the richest 
man in Wayland. His house had a noble site on the slope 
of the valley, overlooking the green meadows and the 
flowery banks of the clear running brook, and commanding 
one of the boldest and most picturesque views of Pine 


SUITORS. 


95 


Mountain. On the other side, the level road stretched 
far down the opening valley, traced and dotted by farm- 
houses and cottages, half-veiled by tall poplars and rows of 
bowery maples. There was a large family of the Cokes, 
twelve in all ; several of them grown up, and distinguished 
rather by sound, practical sense and upright stability of 
character, joined to a warm-hearted genial nature, than by 
any high pretensions or shining qualities, either of person 
or mind. Of Charles, I shall have occasion to speak again, 
a little further on in my story. 

Bessy, too, shy, awkward, silent Bessy, began to have 
her share of attention. Our neighbor, Jonas Crokey, 
school companion in years gone by, when I used to stand 
beside him in the class and look up to him, an over-grown, 
thick-headed boy, half in fear, half in mirth, as in sullen 
discomfiture he was wont to yield place after place to 
quicker-witted scholars of half his stature. Jonas got 
quite into the habit, about this time, of “ coming in ” of an 
evening in a friendly way ; not, indeed, that he made him- 
self remarkably social, apparently he had few thoughts in 
his head, or small power to express them. 

He would sit and gaze like the Laird of Dumbiedikes, 
not, indeed, at Bessy, but alternately at the walls and 
ceiling, most of all, fixing his eyes pertinaciously on the 
brightest spot in the blazing fire. 

When he did venture a remark on the weather or the 
news, he invariably addressed Bessy, who had to bear a 
multitude of jokes on his account. She took all in good 
part, however, disclaiming any particular concern with his 


96 


HOME. 


visits; yet I noticed more than once an air of vexation 
pass over her face, when he would come familiarly to the 
kitchen door, raise the latch, and announce himself with 
“ Good evening, Miss Bessy, it’s a pretty cold night then 
seat himself and gaze into the fire as usual. 

It must be confessed, we were somewhat disposed to 
make fun of him, but my father would allow nothing of it 
in his presence, always treating him with marked courtesy. 
It was not until the beginning of summer that Jonas found 
courage, or perhaps a fitting occasion to make a formal 
declaration of- his wishes to Bessy. At the close of their 
interview, the unsuccessful wooer took from his purse a 
silver piece, and offered it to her, remarking, “ Money is 
scarce and hayd to be got, or I would give you more.” 

Painful Afj it was to her to accept a bit of money from a 
discarded puitor, she would not wound his feelings by refus- 
ing it, while, on his part, it showed that he felt the genuine 
sympathy and exquisite kindness by which she softened her 
refusal. 

This affair was still more painful to her, because his suit 
was favored by our father. Entering the chamber that 
night, I found Mary and Bessy busily talking ; Bessy in 
tears. She had just had a conversation with our father, in 
which he had expressed much regret at her decision, asking 
her to reconsider the matter. He represented to her the 
eligible home it would secure her, near him — for Jonas had 
a good farm, and was steady and industrious, and if he 
knew little else, he was not ignorant of the state of his 
flocks. It might seem that our father was unduly influ- 


SUITORS. 


97 


enccd by worldly considerations ; but he was poor, with a 
family of nine children, six of them girls, for whom he could 
hope to do but little. 

Bessy could scarcely expect a better opportunity to 
settle in life, since, plain in person and shrinking from 
notice, her merits would be overlooked. 

Invaluable, almost essential, as were her services in the 
family, yet his anxiety for her good made it a sore disap- 
pointment at the time, that his beloved daughter should 
decline so good a situation as being the mistress of the 
smart red house and broad fields of Jonas Crokey. Bessy, 
truly humble in self-estimation, fully believed no other pros* 
pect could be in store for her, and she desired no other than 
a life of patient, unnoticed, self-denying toil, forgetting her- 
self, and finding her happiness in ministering to others. 



5 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XYL 

SOBER REALITIES. 
w Touch us gently, Time !” 

As spring advanced, Grace began to droop ; she became 
languid, her step feeble, and, her fragile form seemed to 
fade away before the warm breath of the renewing year. 
She had been too severely taxed the past winter, by expo- 
sure to the cold, and exertions in attending school, and 
more than all, by the long evening walks after singing 
school, which yet, she enjoyed too much to forego willingly. 
How, the exhilarating cold and pleasant excitement were 
succeeded by the relaxing, sunny days which often herald 
the reign of summer. The reaction proved too much for 
her frame, a fever set in, and she was reduced to the feeble- 
ness of an infant, hovering between life and death. 

But we were spared this great sorrow then. On the night 
of the fever’s crisis, when she lay in her utter "weakness, in 
a sort of stupor, wrestling with death, our afflicted father 
called us together around her bed. Then kneeling, he 
prayed to his heavenly Father, “ with strong crying and 
tears,” that He would not cut her down in her youth like 
an untimely flower, but bid her live, to serve and honor the 
God of his fathers. His low, earnest voice became broken 
and faltering, as at length he bowed his head humbly, sub- 
missively saying, “ Thy will be done.” 


S0J3EJR REALITIES. 


99 


I slept little that night. I believed my father’s prayer 
would be answered. I tried to pray, many thoughts 
crowded into my miud — thoughts of neglected duty — of 
forgetfulness of God ; above all, the agonizing fear of death, 
that dark portal to an unknown land. The form of my 
sainted grandfather rose before my mind, as seated in his 
chair, too feeble to rise, he would pour forth his earnest 
pleading prayers. The many kind counsels and warnings of 
my grandmother too — alas ! so long forgotten and neglected, 
now came fresh to my recollection. 

Lovely and beloved, as was my sister, conscience too 
plainly .whispered, that she too had been careless of prayer, 
— had been intent upon the pleasures of her joyous young 
life, and not upon the high duties and solemn destiny of her 
immortal soul. 

1 felt that she was unfit to die, and yet, she might even 
then be passing through the dark valley. The resolutions 
I made that night, were never afterwards quite forgotten. 
The next morning Grace was awake and conscious, colorless 
as the sheet on which she lay, her eye uncertain in its 
languid gaze, but the danger was past, the fluttering spark 
of life though feeble now brightened, and joy and thankful- 
ness reigned in the house. Slowly and gradually recovering, 
she regained at length, her usual buoyant activity, and even 
increased vigor and firmer health, as if the ebbing springs 
of life pressed back to their source — had started afresh, 
purified and strengthened by the mighty struggle. We felt 
that she was once more ours. 

Mary commenced this summer, her first experience in 


100 


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teaching, and she centinued for several successive seasons 
this excellent discipline for the mind and heart. Her first 
effort was in a small obscure town adjoining, and much is 
revealed of the state of things in those early times, by the 
fact, that she received in pay a written promise of “ a good 
cow with a vantage heifer,” as it was quaintly expressed in 
the obligation. This was deemed better than the “ town 
order ” usually given, and a mark of uncommonly high 
estimation of her services. 

Cousin Bessy Hastings visited Wayland this season. 
She was a fair, delicate, gleeful 'girl, finding infinite amuse- 
ment in our country ways and rustic habits, accustomed as 
she was to the bland, polished airs of the city, and to a 
mode of life remarkably quiet, unvaried and methodical. 
She was nice and exact in her ideas of propriety. Some- 
times she was quite scandalized at the greater latitude of 
manners in rural life, on our free hills. The first day after 
her arrival being Sunday, she rode to church behind uncle 
Ja ,v >es on horseback, which, though quite the post of honor 
according to our customs, was a great annoyance to her, 
and she complained piteously to us the next day, half in 
mirth, half in vexation. 

“How I felt,” said she, “perched up so high on the 
horse, with my feet dangling, and to be obliged to put my 
arm round a man, and hold on by the button-hole - of his 
coat. I was so ashamed 1” 

She was quite ignorant of the modern fashionable prac- 
tice of embracing one’s partner in the waltz ! My gentle 
cousin became in time, quite familiar with all like honors, 


SOBER REALITIES. 


101 


and spite of a little over-fastidicusness, ller visit gave us 
much delight, she was so genial in her mirth, so fertile iu 
finding pleasure in everything. She acquired considerable 
skill in managing a horse, and liked it extremely. She 
attempted too, to learn to spin, but her merriment over the 
wheel prevented much proficiency. She carried home a 
much deeper color on her cheeks, and a far better acquaint- 
ance with nature, than was hers; w T hen she took her first- 
lonely journey through the long patches of woods, and 
viewed with astonishment the lofty trees pointing skyward, 
excluding all prospect save its blue canopy, and looked 
almost bewildered upon the wide extent of field and hill, 
the waving verdure, and the ever-changing beauty of a 
country landscape. 


102 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

HOME LIFE. 

Three years had passed. We were again seated on our 
favorite rock, watching the slowly setting sun, on one of 
those mild, hazy autumn days in whieh the waning year 
seems to pause, brooding over the tranquil earth. The 
woods were just tipped and sprinkled with pale yellow and 
crimson, amid their dark depth of verdure ; all was in sweet 
harmony with the joy and content of our hearts. 

Grace had that day returned to us, after another absence 
of more than a year. We had much to say. We were all 
five clustered together, in various attitudes, all talking by 
turns. 

Alger, too, was there, seated a little lower down, on the 
edge of the rocky hillock, his back partly turned towards 
us, gazing at the western sky, often turning his eyes to 
drink in every word that was said ; yet with the quiet, grave 
air which was his wont. Oh, how lovely looked our Grace, 
as with animated, happy face, she spoke from the fullness 
of her warm heart of the kind friend with whom she had 
been staying ! 

“ Dear Mrs. Brintnall has been so good to me !” said she ; 
“ If I had been her own daughter, she could not have been 
more watchful to consult my happiness in every thing ; lov- 
ing and caring for me for the sake of our dear mother, 


HOME LIFE. 


103 


whom she loved so well. And Bessy, I have borne your name 
almost all the time V 1 

“Why was that?” asked Bessy. 

“ Ok, at first, Mrs. Brintnall would constantly mistake, 
and call me by my mother’s name, because she thought I 
looked so much as she used to ; and afterwards she said I 
must let her ca^l me so while I stayed, for it brought back 
her childish days.” 

“ Did she and our mother live together when they were 
little girls ?” asked Hester. 

“ Yes ; she says they lived side by side, and went to the 
same school ; they shared the same tasks, and played 
together among the beautiful groves of Roxbury Common, 
and she told me much of their frolics on the shady banks of 
the pond on the plains, then so wild and lonely. Oh, she 
is a noble-hearted woman ! She has been like a mother to 
me. You know her husband left her but a small income, 
and she has her two boys to provide for; yet she would 
purchase things for me, and instead of letting me help her 
in her work, she has taken great pains to give me some of 
her own exquisite skill in different kinds of sewing. And 
so, young ladies,” said she, smiling and courtseying, “I have 
the pleasure of introducing to you Miss G-race Leland, 
fashionable dress-maker ; and if you do not choose to pa- 
tronize me, I will volunteer my services to remodel my 
father’s wardrobe.” 

“Oh, never fear,” said Mary, “but we shall all be dis- 
posed to bring your numerous accomplishments to an imme- 
diate test.” 


104 


HOME. 


“ I do not doubt you will find exercise for all your skill,” 
said Bessy; “ and nothing could be more kind and consider- 
ate for Mrs. Brintnall, as she knew the circumstances of 
the family, than to fit you to be useful at home, instead of 
filling your head with all sorts of fine notions.” 

“ She used to say,” said Grace, “ that, among several 
daughters, one should have it her province to know how to 
do all kinds of sewing.” 

“ Oh, Grace,” said Mary, “do tell us about your visit to 
Boston ; I want to hear all about Aunt Hastings and Cousin 
Bessy.” 

“I went there with Mrs. Brintnall last June. She and 
Aunt Hastings enjoyed so much together, talking of old 
times ! Oh ! Aunt Hastings is so beautiful, so queen-like ! 
she could hardly speak to me at first ; she looked steadily 
at me a moment, and then her eyes filled with tears.” 

“It was because you look so much like our mother,” 
said I. 

“Yes, she said it recalled her sister to her mind, just as 
she was in their young days, when they were at home 
together.” 

“ Hid you go out to the Plains ?” asked Mary. 

“Oh! yes, a party of us went out there; and what a 
paradise it is ! more beautiful than you told us, after your 
visit. The little groves of high trees close on the banks of 
that beautiful pond, and all around so level, and green, and 
smooth. Hid you see Mr. Willard’s house ?” 

“Ho,” said Mary, “it was not built when I was there ; 
all around the pond was covered with woods.” 


ho:, ie lie; 


105 


il It is an elegant mansion/’ said Grace, “ overlooking 
the pond ; winding paths lead from the gardens, through 
the shrubbery. It is wild and solitary, yet it is a lovely 
landscape. It often goes by the name of Jamaica.” 

“ But do tell us about Cousin Bessy.” 

“ Oh, she talked a great deal about her visit to Way- 
land, and says she means to come again next summer. Her 
brother is very agreeable. He will soon be married. I 
never saw a finer looking man. But Alger says the dew is 
falling; see, his hand is quite wet where he has felt the 
grass ; let us go in.” 

Half an hour after, Grace and I were walking back and 
forth on the turf before the house, in the soft moonlight, 
our heads enveloped in the same shawl, while we busily 
talked on various topics. 

“Do tell me about this doctor, that comes to see 
Mary.” 

“ It is young Dr. Emery,” said I ; “ Clark Emery, you 
remember, son of Mr. Emery on Flower Hill. He has 
been away from town, some years, pursuing his studies. 
He is considered a good scholar, and quite skillful.” 

“ Oh, ’’said Grace, “ I can just recollect him at school, but 
I had quite settled it that Mary would marry her old beau, 
Sam Lyman.” 

“So had I, and I sometimes think she does prefer' him ; 
I half believe^she would have him, if it were not for his 
mother and sister, Mrs. Goldring, you know.” 

“ Oh, nobody minds Mrs. Goldring,” said Grace, “she is 
always whining out some complaint or other.” 


HOME. 


106 

il Well, both she and her mother have said some ill- 
natured things that Mary will not easily brook, sweet- 
tempered and forgiving as she is, about his marrying a 
penniless girl, as they say.” 

“ I hope she will not condescend to accept him,” exclaimed 
Grace. “ Her noble qualities and real loveliness are worth 
more than all the dowries in Way land.” 

“ I do not doubt Sam is quite of that opinion, and if he 
were entirely independent of his mother, it would matter 
little to him what she thought. But you recollect Colonel 
Lyman died suddenly, the property is somewhat embar- 
rassed, aud Madam Lyman and her son manage it toge- 
ther.” 

“ How finely Mary looks,” said Grace ; “ she is hand- 
somer than ever, and her face has such a sweet, serious 
expression.” 

When, again, we were all together at night, there was 
much free and happy talk, and many sportive jests on 
Mary’s dilemma, and the course she had best pursue. She, 
herself, as lively as any of us, asked each one in turn, half 
laughing, half serious, which of her suitors she should 
accept. Mary was, indeed, sorely puzzled to decide 
between the two rival claimants for her hand. Young 
Lyman had persevered long in his attentions, and probably 
would before this have won her consent, had she been sure 
of being cordially welcomed into his family. To Dr. Emery 
there was no objection ; he was kind-hearted, manly aud 
sincere ; a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man, and a good 
physician. It was not long before her decision was made 


HOME LIFE. 


107 


in his favor, and soon after he received a pressing invitation 
to visit the province of Maine, with a prospect of an advan- 
tageous settlement in his profession. 

He determined upon going, to return in one year for 
Mary. He urged their immediate marriage, but that was 
overruled ; they were, however, “ published,” just before he 
left, in compliance with his wish. Mary, too, being not 
unwilling that her relation to him should be generally 
understood. 

Next came the great era in Bessy’s life. At the dis- 
tance of a mile or so from us, lived a family of the name of 
Cotting. Mr. Seth Cotting was one of the deacons of the 
church, a most exemplary man, remarkable for the sobriety 
of his habits, and the precision of his manners. He had, 
apparently, never deviated in the smallest minutia from the 
customs of his father Seth, which customs he again was 
transmitting inviolate to his son Seth. This young man 
had reached the age of twenty-seven or twenty-eight ; a 
sober, steady, truly excellent character, seldom mixing in 
any company, and though among young men of that period, 
habits of general gallantry prevailed, he was never known 
to offer any particular mark of civility to a female, scarcely, 
indeed, to raise his eyes, or speak to a young lady. He 
had never been at our house, unless it might be an acciden- 
tal call on business, nor were we at all acquainted with him. 
This shy and bashful, but really meritorious person, was 
seen one day slowly coming .down the lane towards the 
house. Bessy espied him from the window, and afterwards 
declared that with an instant flash she divined his visit, and 


108 


HOME. 


tha-t its motive respected herself, with a sudden conviction 
on her mind that they would do for each other, and that it 
would be altogether a suitable and proper match. 

Of their quiet courtship there is little need to speak ; 
nothing occurred to ruffle its tranquil course. One evening, 
however, as they were sitting together in the common room, 
the family having retired, Bessy chanced to fix her eyes on 
a crack in the old wooden ceiling which separated this 
room from our . parents’ sleeping apartment, and became 
conscious that a large grey eye was peering through the 
crevice ; it was our stepmother, who could not resist the 
temptation to witness the interesting tete-a-tete of this 
steady couple. Though Bessy was a trifle vexed at this 
mode of gratifying her curiosity, it was so characteristic 
that it furnished us all some amusement when she told it 
next day, with a grave, comical air. 

In the course of the following year Bessy’s home was 
transferred to the pretty red cottage prepared for her on 
the brow of the hill overlooking Talley Brook, with its 
moving panorama of life and beauty. There 

“ Her virtues blossomed daily, and poured out 
A fragrance upon all who in her path 
Had a blest fellowship.” 


There, peacefully, her quiet, unobtrusive life has flowed on; 

/ 

contented and happy in her retired, sheltered home, her 
visions of happiness have been more than realized ; and if 
moderate and tranquil have been her joys and pleasures, 
light, too, have been her sorrows. More than fifty years 


HOME LIFE. 


109 


have passed away, no change has come to their dwelling, 
save such as are brought by the gentle touch of time, 
which, coming on unperceived with stealthy steps, has gra- 
dually transformed the youthful Bessy and her sober and 
bashful, but most kind and faithful partner, into an aged 
couple, with silvered hair and. feeble step, tranquilly look- 
ing toward the grave as the entrance door to a new and 
glorious life. 

The house echoes to the sound of little feet, and merry 
voices, and surrounded by their children’s children, they 
still live on the well-stocked farm. That old red cottage, 
if dimmed in its brightness, looks most truly comfortable ; 
the tall pines still throw their broad sheltering shadows on 
the green hill above the house ; even the stone horse-block 
casts its quiet shade under the front windows, as of yore, 
and while the most rapid and startling changes, amid whirl 
and din, announce the unparalleled progress of modern 
times — while traffic, arts, society itself, move forward with 
railroad speed, all is calm and unvaried there! 


110 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

9 

ALGER— MARY. 

The next year commenced with scenes of affliction, our 
first great sorrow since the death of our beloved mother. 
Alger — our dear Alger, was suddenly stricken down by 
the fell destroyer 1 

I do not know why my memory recalls so little of this 
favorite brother. During all the period of which I have been 
speaking, it has ever been a matter of regret, deep but 
unavailing, that so few recollections remain to me of his 
short life, overshadowed as it must have been, by a growing 
consciousness of his peculiar calamity. How have I won- 
dered since, that I could have been so selfishly absorbed in 
my own trifling pursuits and pleasures — the foolish, giddy 
thoughts and vain imaginations, that so often steal from 
youth its precious short-lived advantages 1 Oh ! if I had 
but sought to win access to the inner cell of his gentle, sad 
spirit ! Oh ! to possess that balm — the memory of having 
soothed and sweetened his impoverished life, and made some 
atonement to a heart defrauded of half the sweet charities 
and kindly sympathies of nature ! 

As a child, Alger was cheerful and lively in his demon- 
strations of feeling, making known his thoughts and wishes 
by rapid signs and gestures, often unintelligible to all but 
Grace, who being much with him in early childhood, had quick 


ALGER MARY. 


Ill 


interchange of ideas, and could interpret his different shades 
of meaning. But he had grown up quiet, grave, reserved, 
as if interrogating his own soul, dumb indeed, in outward 
speech, but all the more intense in its silent communings. 

None knew — perhaps none sought to know, what surges 
of conflicting thoughts rose and swelled within the shut 
caverns of his soul, and swept over his straitened and 
isolated being. 

He was tall and slender, just verging towards manhood, 
with all its aspirations, its hopes, and its high purposes. He 
felt the weight of his coming responsibilities and trusts, and 
was visibly oppressed by it. I distinctly remember his pale, 
high forehead, the sad expression of his face, and his. long- 
drawn sighs, as he sat among us, mute with an absent, 
thoughtful air. Was his spirit burdened by the foresha- 
dowing on his clear vision of the invisible, eternal world, 
which he was soon to enter ? Who can tell' of the world of 
thought ? 1 Is it not God’s history written in imperishable 
characters, to be read in the day when the secrets of all 
hearts shall be made manifest ? 

I often noticed his aspect, but oh 1 with what strange, 
heedless uuconcern ! giving to the workings of his mind 
but a momentary thought. 

He was taken ill in the evening, while assisting our 
father in some preparations for the early morning’s work. 
The agonized expression of his face was noticed by us, for 
he did not complain. The remedies applied afforded him 
but a partial relief. He grew worse, and died after a few 
days’ suffering. Peacefully he passed away, for death met 


112 


HOME. 


him in a gentle sleep. Hester and I were sent for, from 
school, a few hours before he died ; but the sands of life 
were feebly running, he scarcely knew us. Two or three 
physicians attended him, but his disease baffled their skill. 
Oh ! how we mourned him 1 As we had felt a peculiar 
tenderness for him while living, so our sorrow took a depth 
of gloom from the suddenness of his departure, still deeper 
that we knew so little the emotions of his sealed spirit. It 
was a cloud, without anything on which the smitten heart 
could rest for relief. The winter was a sad one. My 
father’s prayers were deeply affecting and earnest, expressed 
much in the words of Scriptures, and I remember being 
much moved by this passage, “ Show us, 0 ! God, where- 
fore thou contendest with us.” It was a- time of serious 
thought with us all, and an air of tenderness and solemnity 
pervaded -the house. 

Mary, in the ensuing spring, made a public profession of 
religion, and Bessya few months later. Mary had, indeed, 
become the thoughtful, earnest woman ; always obliging, and 
sweetly winning in her disposition, she now added the lovely 
grace of a self-denying spirit, regardful of the happiness of 
others ; instead of the gay, giddy, volatile girl, there was 
the cheerful, refined, loving woman. Her sprightly conver- 
sation, and the animated play of her features, betokened 
her vivacity, and had singular power to entertain and 
charm. 

The time was drawing near, when she was to leave her 
father’s home, to accompany the husband of her choice to 
the distant province of Maine, then newly and sparsely 


ALGER MARY. 


113 


settled, regarded as an inhospitable clime, and an almost 
savage land. 

It was, in fact, an unknown, untamed wilderness, except 
on the sea-coast, and along the borders of the rivers. 

Dr. Emery’s letters announced his satisfaction in the 
prospect opening before him — his wish to remain, and his 
speedy return to claim his promised bride. 

Now was coming the first change in my hitherto monoto- 
nous life ; for, save the two years of my childhood spent in 
'Atherton, my knowledge and experience, if not my 
thoughts, had been bounded by the neighborhood of my 
father’s cottage. Mary wished me to accompany her to her 
far-off home, and the idea was most delightful to me. My 
father gave consent, and preparations for our departure in 
the early autumn, went on with great alacrity. It was 
arranged that I should go to Boston for a visit of several 
weeks, where Mary and her husband should join me, -when 
ready to set sail. I was at this time just sixteen, and it 
would be difficult to find one of that age more unsophisti- 
cated in the ways of the world — more childlike in ignorance 
and simplicity, — more entirely uninitiated in all the numerous 
little arts and appliances that form the framework of 
society. I was excessively shy, blushing at the least thing, 
with a painful consciousness of my own deficiencies. 

I had, too, a very humble opinion of my own personal 
attractions, often contrasting the beauty of Grace, her 
delicate bloom, sparkling eyes, and the light airy movements 
of her lithe figure, with my own less pleasing face and form, 
for my darker complexion and vivid color lacked delicacy, 


114 


HOME. 


and I was far too timid to be at ease in the presence of 
strangers. Bessy and Grace were taller than Mary and I ; 
and Grace, so round and straight, was elegantly formed. 
We were all, indeed, sufficiently straight, thanks to an early 
acquaintance with the spinning-wheel. The blooming girls 
of that period possessed the expanded chest, the well-deve- 
loped bust, the firm springing step, which belong to this 
healthiest and most graceful of all indoor employments — an 
elasticy of motion which dancing-masters sigh in vain to 
reach. 

The handsome forms, as well as firmer health, and longer 
lives of the women of that day, compared with the bent 
shoulders, and stooping gait of their more feeble daughters, 
are matters of general observation, nor need we seek far for 
the cause. 


THE JOUTiNEY ANT) VISIT TO BOSTON. 


115 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE JOURNEY AND VISIT TO BOSTON. 

‘‘Ob, recall 

Those past delicious hours, 

Which made me happy as a bird 
In its sweet home of flowers.” 

I went to Boston in company with Major Huntley, of 
Atherton, brother to my stepmother, who was also of the 
party. We rode in Major Huntley’s chaise, a new, and at 
that time quite a graud conveyance. Yain would be the 
attempt to picture the pleasure this visit afforded me ; 
retired as my life had been, the most trivial 'things had 
power to charm ; my senses were alive to all impressions, 
for every object wore the gloss and fascinating garb of 
novelty. This period was painted with the gay coloring of 
the dawn of existence, was' invested with all the bright hues 
of a young, fresh imagination, just wakened into life by its 
own delighted exercise. 

It has ever been most vivid in my memory, as if graven 
with a diamond’s point on the plastic metal, while whole 
long years of dull, weary existence, have vanished like the 
light tracing upon the sand, washed away by the next 
returning tide. • • 

The journey itself was most delightful ; it was in the 
loveliness of early summer ; pleasure was written on the 
fair earth, and still fairer sky, and bright hopes and flatter- 


116 


HOME. 


ing anticipations of new scenes soon brushed away the lin- 
gering sadness of leaving home. Major Huntley was a 
most amusing companion, full of jokes and comical observa- 
tions. Mother was in the gayest spirits, and returned joke 
for joke. 

We stopped the first night at Marlborough, setting off 
again the next morning with the early dawn, to gain betimes 
a march upon the noonday sun. Beauty and fragrance were 
all around ; sparkling dews, and the sweet warbling of bird- 
voices filled the morning air. 

As the day slowly waned, my two companions being 
chiefly engaged, with each other, I sat forward, watching the - 
ever»changing landscape, arrayed in summer verdure and 
luxuriance. Many lovely spots have my eyes looked on, 
since that glowing spring of my youth, but on none more 
charming than was that -succession of green woods, Smiling 
villages, «and waving fields ; the shifting forms and hues of 
the silvery clouds, and the fast flitting shadows from hill to 
plain, from the glancing river to the deep, dark woods. A 
moving panorama of ever-changing beauties. We rode 
slowly that blissful afternoon, for the horse had travelled a 
a long and weary way. 

About the time the sun was setting, we neared the place 
of our destination. This was in Dorchester, the home of 
two sisters of old Madam Huntley, and aunts' of my step- 
mother. . They were elderly maiden ladies, quite rich, living 
in a great, old-fashioned farm-house near the beach. 

I had heard much of these rich, eccentric, old Aunt 
Pettys ; they had occasionally sent to mother some articles 


THE JOUKNEY AND VISIT TO BOSTON. 117 

of apparel, from their well-preserved and ample store ; a 
scarlet, hooded mantle, and a large-figured, bright-colored 
brocade cloak, of the oddest and most ancient style, were 
among the treasures laid up in. mother’s chests, presented 
by these precise maidens. The mantle, mother persisted in 

wearing to church, to our grief, for its oddity excited both 

0 

observation and ridicule. 

I had heard of drawers and chests full of gay-colored, 
grotesque attire, kept for years, and' all made in the same 
antiquated fashion, for they would have nothing new or 
modern. The house and all its appurtenances were as 
quaint, odd, and old-fashioned as themselves, though not 
without an air of stiff and stately grandeur, in the square 
roof and carved wooden shutters. 

We rode up to the door under the shade of an old elm 
tree, that threw its shade almost all over the venerable man- 
sion. Presently a large, good-natured looking did lady 
came out to the gate, the bright red ribbons fluttering on 
her cap, as she screamed out a welcome ; while a little, 
prim, sharp, black-eyed person appeared in sight a moment, 
then vanished, and we heard her shrill voice calling “ Ru- 
pert ! Rupert !” and' he, too, of childhood memory, soon 
came forward, and after greeting his mother and uncle, led 
away the horse. 

We were conducted to the family “keeping-room,” and 
seating myself, on the broad stool of an open window, I 
looked around me almost bewildered, and quite unheeded, 
while mutual inquiries and congratulations passed between 
the older persons. 


118 


HOME. 


The window in which I sat looked out upon a large yard, 
in the rear of the house, stocke’d with a variety of domestic 
animals ; at the furthest corner, a cow stood peacefully 
chewing her cud under a tree. Rupert turned our weary 
horse, now freed from his harness, into the enclosure, where 
he testified his delight in the green grass, by rolling him- 
self over and over on the dewy carpet. 

Within all wms strange; the great clock in the corner 
extended from the top to the bottom of the room, carved in 
a curious device ; the fireplace was filled with fragrant 
branches, 'gay blossoms, and boughs of asparagus, with its 
brilliant red berries, and decorated above with some pic- 
tures of scripture scenes. On either side were two large 
painted fire-screens, which, no doubt, had faithfully served 
for many long years to protect the fair maiden faces 
of the sisters from the too ardent gaze of their winter’s 
fire. * 

My observations were stopped by the entrance of Rupert, 
now a dashing young man of nineteen or twenty, looking 
bold and assured, like the same lad in former years. He 
came up to me, saying, 

“ Ah, ha 1 I wish you a very good evening ! How are 
you ? As demure as ever ? Just from the upper regions, 
eh ? How goes it up in the bush ?” 

I could have little to say in reply, and that coldly, for I 
was both abashed and displeased by his free manners and 
confident tone. Just then I was requested to assist the 
maid in taking our things up stairs, and my mother, with 
characteristic thoughtlessness, added — 


THE JOUKNEY AND VISIT TO BOSTON. 119 

il See that you don’t meddle with anything, nor stop to 
look round, as if you never saw anything before.” 

This address, than which nothing could have been more 
uncalled for, made my cheeks burn with mortification. In 
fact, I had rather an uncomfortable time during my 
stay there, for I felt little claim on their hospitality, and 
Rupert’s free, half mocking air, both embarrassed and vexed 
me ; but, fortunately, he was not present much of the time,' 
and I was greatly amused with all I saw. The antiquated 
tea service at supper, with china of the oddest device, the 
high-backed, stuffed chairs, too, covered with black leather, 
and the round, carved table, so dark and polished ; and I 
could scarcely refrain from laughiug outright at the queer, 
almost grotesque, attire .of the mistresses of the domain. 
These sisters formed a perfect contrast to each other in 
looks and air, and even in dress, though both equally singu- 
lar ; continually interrupting each other with, “ La ! sister, 
why do you say so ?” 

The darkened rooms seemed to make fearful, unwonted 
echoes, as we made the circuit of the house the next day, 
mother being curious to see it ; and, indeed, she looked 
with wistful eyes at the great, old chests of drawers, which 
she doubtless conjectured might contain much store of 
coveted household gear, about which, however, her cnri- 
osity was not gratified. The old trees about the house 
waved in the wind to a stately, formal measure, and a large 
flock of geese stalked majestically about, as if conscious to 
whom they belonged, while ducks, hens, and flitting doves, 
all seemed to smack of the olden time. These ladies lived 


120 


HOME. 


apart from society, seldom going abroad, except occasion- 
ally into Boston to church on the Sabbath. They had one 
friend, a sort of connection, a widow lady, living not far off. 
Patty, the maid, was dispatched to invite her to come and 
spend the day in honor of their visitors. Major Huntley was 
a favored guest, everything he did or said, delighted them ; 
he had a lively, witty vein in conversation, and kept the 
good ladies in excellent spirits. The lady guest was arrayed 
in stiff brocade, with three broad, white ruffles round the 
neck, extending to the waist in front, while the cap looked 
almost ponderous, with its weight of frills and ribbons. 
Briskly the talk went on, between these ladies and my 
mother, and when Major Huntley was present he kept them 
laughing, shaking themselves in the best of humor, and say- 
ing — “ La, me ! what a man l” 

The next day was Sunday, and the family vehicle, a sort 
of small open coach, was brought out, and furbished up, to 
go into Boston to church. As there was not room for me, 
something was said about Rupert’s taking Major Huntley’s 
chaise, but he did not seem particularly to desire it, and 
MOthing would have been less pleasing to me than a ride 
into Boston, delightful as it might have been in itself, under 
Rupert’s protection. No doubt, in his estimation, my dress 
and appearance lacked the elegance and fashion of the city, 
and would, he thought, do him little credit. As it was, I 
expressed a desire to stay behind, and the vehicle set off 
without me, Rupert on horseback by its side. 

I had' just seated myself in the vacant room, for a little 
quiet reading, when a slight figure came gently and swiftly 


THE JOUBNEY AJND VISIT TO BOSTON. 121 

to me, just glancing over my shoulder at the book I was 
reading, then brushed past me and lightly dropped into a 
chair. I was startled, and gazed at my visitor with a 
mixture of curiosity and pity, though at no loss to divine 
who she was. I had been told her story, and it interested 
me greatly. She was a relative of Aunt Petty’s, who had 
been insane from early youth, and had with kindly care 
been cherished by these good sisters since the death of her 
parents, a period of fifteen or twenty years. She was per- 
fectly harmless, and generally very quiet, going all over the 
house and amusing herself as fancy dictated. 

She had been the child of wealth and distinction, emi- 
nently beautiful and accomplished, and was still fair and 
child-like in appearance, her brow clear, and innocent- 
looking, though her long silken hair was slightly silvered. 
Her air was so sweet and gentle, that nothing betokened 
her mental malady, save a restless glitter in her light blue 
eye, and her extreme liveliness of manner, which never 
varied, except when she was in a sort of stupor, and kept 
her bed. This had been the case since our arrival ; so that 
I had not seen her till she appeared so suddenly before me. 
Apparently struck with my surprise, she began an apology, 
saying, in a soft, gentle voice, “ I fear I have interrupted 
your reading ; pray go on ; let me not disturb you ; may I 
inquire what book engages your attention V 7 

I showed her that it was the Bible, and smilingly asked 
if I should read to her. 

“Oh, thank you!” said she; “nothing would be so 
delightful !” Then, without waiting for me to begin, quick 

6 


122 


HOME. 


as thought, she took from the table a volume of poems, and 
read herself, without raising her eyes, several pages, in a 
clear, melodious tone, giving the accent and expression 
admirably. “ Is it not exquisite ?” said she, looking up at 
me with a bright smile. I expressed my admiration, and 
commended her reading. She inclined her head with much 
grace, saying, “ I am more happy to please you. Madam 
Sontelle taught me poetry; did you ever learn of Madam 
Sontelle ? Did you attend her school ?” repeated she. 
Without giving me time to reply, she turned to me with the 
most affectionate manner, and commenced speaking rapidly, 
her mind probably reverting to her school-girl days and to 
her instructress. “My dear young friend,” she began, 
“ nothing so infallibly distinguishes the accomplished young 
lady as true gentleness ; but gentleness is not the air of 
soft languishment that some young ladies affect, nor the 
simpering prettiness worn like the best dress, an ornament 
in company ; such are mere coverings to conceal pride, and 
ill temper. Gentleness, my dear girl, has her seat in the 
heart, and is ever attended by her sweet sister, Humility, 
the lowly and graceful handmaid of all the benign virtues.” 
This she said with inimitable grace and dignity ; but, 
abruptly stopping, she seemed to make an effort to recollect 
herself, and sat awhile gazing vacantly at me ; then rising, 
she tripped along, seized my hand, and said, “ Permit me to 
lead you to the music room.” 

I had before noticed a large old harpsichord in the adjoin- 
ing room, and went with her, greatly interested and 
amused. She began, lightly sweeping the keys ; but wak- 


THE JOURNEY AND VISIT TO BOSTON. 


123 


ing the slumbering echoes of the past, old scenes and asso- 
ciations, she became more and more excited, the expression 
of her face grew rapt and intense, her thin fingers flew 
faster and faster over the instrument, till, completely 
exhausted by her own emotion, she drooped her head, 
touched a few plaintive notes, and commenced softly and 
sadly, by singing that beautiful ballad of Goldsmith, “ Turn 
gentle hermit of the dale,” &c. ; but her voice sunk in sobs, 
and she fell into a violent fit of weeping. I was distressed, 
and tried to comfort her, though I could myself scarcely 
refrain from tears. She permitted me to lead her away, 
and seek Patty, the kind maid. The good girl came up 
and put her arms round her, saying, “You dear lamb ! 
don’t you cry so ! poor dear thing I she’s worked herself 
up till she’s ready to drop, she’s so tired.” So the affec- 
tionate girl coaxed and comforted her, as one would a 
weary child, till, unresisting, she was led to her room, and 
was soon in a peaceful sleep. I did not see her again, for 
we left the next day, and she was usually kept much from 
visitors, on account of her excitability, and consequent 
exhaustion. This incident affected me much. Poor Susy 
Loring 1 How sad the spectacle of that unhinged and 
crushed intellect ! How mysterious the workings of that % 
crazed but gentle spirit, groping round the walls of its ten- 
ement, searching the haunted cells of memory in the mock- 
ery of vain endeavor, yet ever true to the impulse of her 
affectionate heart. She was always sweet-tempered and 
patient, even in her greatest sorrow. The image of this 
poor demented being was deeply impressed on my memory, 


124 


HOME. 


and her sweet, suffering face haunted me long afterwards. 
I thought of her happy and favored youth, htr bright 
hopes, and of the rude blow that had bruised and blighted 
her affections, jarring upon her finely-tuned soul, till for 
long years it had been like a harp with broken springs. 
Many years are gone since she passed to her long resting- 
place, but the sad and tender recollection of her rises to my 
mind fresh as if of yesterday. 

I have dwelt long on the scenes of these few days, for 
a vivid picture of them is painted on my memory, and I 
love to recall their events. 

A. word about Rupert. He had been taken by these 
kind, though somewhat penurious old aunts, when quite 
small ; he was then a bright, witty little fellow, was petted 
and caressed by them, and would doubtless have succeeded 
to their well kept possessions, had not' his own conduct 
turned aside their intentions. 

It must be allowed that they were not free from blame, 
in their capricious management of him ; being sometimes 
severe and rigorous, then facile, and indulgent to every 
whim. 

Aunt Grizzel, good-natured, and averse to noise or exer- 
tion, was too easy, unless thoroughly aroused by some 
heinous offence, when she employed the greatest severity; 
while Aunt Lois, the younger, was quick-tempered, queru- 
lous, and irritable, but easily cajoled by his playfulness, .and 
sure to take his part, when he fell under the anger of her 
sister. 

Thus, by extreme indulgence in one, and alternate pet- 


4 

THE JOURNEY AND VISIT TO BOSTON. 125 

tishness in the other, he had grown up from a pert, witty 
boy to a self-willed, overbearing youth, undutiful, and even 
insolent, to those kind women to whom he was so much 
indebted. He became, at length, the grief and torment of 
their lives, until at last they cast him off, with a small gra- 
tuity. 

He afterwards married, but, by idleness, reduced his wife 
to poverty, and was finally compelled to learn a trade.. 
After this he lived comfortably, though still poor, in an 
obscure house, near the worthy relatives whose kindness he 
had so abused, and whose favor he had lost. 


126 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XX. 

BOSTON AS IT WAS. 

u Come, let us paint a picture of the past, for the eye of the future.” 

It was towards the last of July, that I found myself, for 
the first time, in the New World of a gay metropolis, at 
the house of my Uncle Hastings. All here was in perfect 
contrast to the singular domicile of Aunt Petty’s, yet 
equally new and strange to me. I could scarcely act 
myself at first, and was covered with confusion, when Uncle 
Hastings, with the most formal politeness, as was his wont, 
entered into grave conversation with me — a simple little 
country girl, with hardly courage to say a word. I believe 
my blushing, shame-faced timidity, must have appeared very 
foolish to him. 

Aunt Hastings, as ever, was full of grace and loveliness, 
with much too in her air that was noble and commanding. 
Cousin Bessy, six years my senior, undertook in due form 
my guardianship, and Kndly and faithfully did she perform 
her task. 

In acquaintance with books, I was not at all inferior to 
my cousin, for reading had always been my delight, and, 
thanks to the press of that age and my father’s care, it had 
been tolerably well selected. My father had much relish for 
books, and so good was his memory, that he would repeat 


BOSTON AS IT WAS. 127 

t 

long passages from his favorite authors. Many such from 
Milton and Pope are familiar to me now, forcibly recalling 
my dear parent to memory. My cousin — pretty and lively 
as she was, and engaging in her manners, lived within the 
polished but narrow circle, that too often bounds the city 
life of young ladies of genteel income ; a round of calls, 
visits, and promenades, in which a surprising variety of 
agreeable nothings are said ; embroidery, with its never- 
failiug excitement of new patterns, and the daily news, well 
conned and commented upon, fill up the intervals. 

Thus the shining small coin of conversation passes briskly 
from smiling lips, with many pretty airs ; while the golden 
eagles gained by reading and reflection are almost wholly 
wanting, being esteemed quite too weighty for the cheerful, 
vivacious minds of young persons engrossed with passing 
trifles. 

Solid reading, while it furnishes the mind, and gives 
higher range to the thoughts, by no means helps one to the 
use of that “ pretty little small talk” which has so large a 
share in the common intercourse of acquaintances. While 
I was surprised that no one cared to read, or apparently 
to extend a thought beyond the ordinary occurrences of the 
day, I was myself, quite heedless of the various minute 
observances of time and place, the thousand little decencies 
that make up the “ comme il faut ,” in decorum and outward 
propriety, and doubtless committed many unconscious 
blunders ; my recollection assures me of several occasions 
in which a hint was given, making my cheeks mantle with 
blushes for my ignorance. I knew not whether my dress 


128 


v HOME. 


was fitting or otherwise ; I thought little about it. 
Cousin Bessy, indeed, took unwearied pains to aid my inex- 
perience in my little purchases, and once, when we were 
going out shopping, as I waited a moment at the hall-door 
for my cousin, Aunt Hastings came along in her smiling, 
graceful way, and slipped a bank-note into my hand, with a 
word or two playfully spoken, and away again, almost 
before I was aware of what she had done. 

Uncle Hastings’ house was about a mile from “ the 
Neck,” which space was by no means thickly settled, while 
the Neck itself was simply a narrow road, or sandy beach, 
on either hand almost covered with salt water at every high 
tide. Towards the Common, too, there was a large open 
space, even before reaching the old burying ground, now 
forming part of its boundary. This spot had been anciently 
the enclosure of the church, long since passed with its 
worshippers into oblivion and forgetfulness. Here, old 
Governor Dudley, one of the crown-appointed rulers of the 
colony in primitive times, had been buried ; and the spot 
where his bones reposed, was pointed out to me with much 
reverence by Cousin Bessy, for he was one of her paternal 
ancestors. An old monument on the other side of the 
Common interested me very much ; it recorded the deeds of 
our fathers, and particularly of Washington ; it has now 
decayed, or given place to other memorials. 

The Mall was planted with trees, and was already a 
favorite resort on fine days ; a walk then answered the 
purpose subserved in our day, by the genteel and formal 
“ call.” -The young and gay went thither to while away 


BOSTON AS IT WAS. 


129 


the time in pleasant converse ; the fashionable belles flaunted 
along with their lap-clogs, their trains gracefully sweeping 
the ground a yard or two behind, or negligently thrown 
over the arm, in rare instances confided to the custody of a 
little colored boy, who thus helped his aristocratic mistress 
bear the burden of her finery. Ladies of less pretentions 
had the more moderate length of their trains fastened up to 
the waist. Most amusing and delightful to me, was this 
promenade, the daily recreation of all young people who 
made any attempt at fashion and gentility. The well- 
trodden walks are still pressed by the feet of morning and 
evening visitors ; grave men pace thoughtfully, or sit medi- 
tating in the shade of those old, old trees, with the hum of 
a mighty city around them. Stately matrons enjoy the 
fresh breeze in the sultry days, and bounding children too, 
are there, while young men and maidens still walk arm in 
arm beneath the whispering leaves. But in that olden time 
all was free and joyous life and animation, when the flippant 
jest, the light laugh, and gay flirtation ruled the hour, 
while the trees were yet young, and amid their branches 
opened many a passage to the bright sunshine. 

The big “ old elm , 77 indeed, was there, even then looking 
almost as venerable as now, but, instead of the little pond, 
with its sparkling fountain, was only a low, marshy spot, 
which, with the flow and ebb of the tide formed alternately 
a deep pool, and a muddy hollow. The whole common was 
a green pasture ; while Beacon street, now so thickly stud- 
ded with its elegant mansions, was then, for the most part, 
a rough, unsightly hill, disfigured by rocks and sandy knolls ; 

G* 


130 


HOME. 


toward the Common, however, it was levelled, and the State 
House was already erected, and in process of completion. 

We sauntered over the ground many times, and with ever 
fresh delight to me, lingering on the western slope, in the 
delicious summer afternoon, to gaze on the beautiful country 
across the calm water, or watch the sun go down into the 
sea,* like a monarch descending to rest. 

Rarely, indeed, could a finer prospect be found than was 
there seen, of the fair young city seated as a queen upon 
the water — environed by the fine open expanse, adorned 
with wood-embosomed dwellings and glittering spires. 

The funeral of Samuel Adams took place soon after my 
arrival, but none of the family attended, Uncle Hastings 
being rigidly opposed to the federalist party. As it was 
to be quite an imposing spectacle, Aunt Hastings wished 
me to go ; so, giving me many careful directions, she sent her 
maid to attend me. Securing a station on the steps of the 
State House, I saw the march of the long procession of 
sable carriages, drawn by black horses. Slowly, and with 
steady tramp, they advanced to the old monument, then, 
making a circuit, the Dead March commenced, with muffled 
drums. This, heard for the first time, powerfully affected 
me ; tears ran fast, and long after they had all passed by, 
I stood, indulging the thrilling sensations awakened by the 
scene. 

Soon after this, Aunt Hastiugs received a visit from a 
relative and old friend of my own mpther, who lived at Ja- 
maica Plains. The beautiful spot now recognized by this 
name, had at that time a far different appearance from what 


BOSTON AS IT WAS. 


131 


it now presents, being occupied by newly cultivated farms, 
except on the border of the fine pond, which began already 
to be a favorite summer resort for pleasure parties. 

This relative, usually called Aunt Brooks, was a large, 
good-looking lady, very easy-tempered, and extremely fond 
of reading ; for a new book or magazine she would neglect 
even pressing engagements and necessary duties. Bessy 
and I being seated at the window, saw her, through the 
blind, approaching the house, and Bessy telling her mother, 
Aunt Hastings hurriedly said, “ Put away those papers, 
then, quick ; for I want to enjoy her company a little, this 
time which Bessy hastened to accomplish before she en- 
tered. She was carelessly attired, but her face ! how lumi- 
nous it was with the expression not only of intelligence, but 
of a certain large-heartedness, which was indeed a part of 
her character. 

She regarded me with much interest and kindness, for the 
sake of my lost mother, whom, she said, she had often held 
in her arms. On leaving, she urged me warmly to go and 
spend a week with her, saying her son came in to market 
every day, with produce from the farm* and would call for 
me in the morning. I gladly assented, and sure enough, the 
next forenoon a large, ruddy-faced man called at the door, 
with his market-wagon, and I was soon jolting along, feel- 
ing somewhat queer with my stranger companion. He, 
however, made himself quite sociable, informing me of the 
names of residents on the way, and occasionally telling an 
anecdote, or describing the character of some one of them. 

Sometime after noon we reached the plain old farm-house, 
very large, and unpainted, standing apparently in the mid- 


132 


HOME. 


die of an apple orchard. Here, after a day or two, I felt 
myself quite at home. There was a large family, and the 
farm seemed as productive as a garden, being cultivated 
with a view to supplying' the city market. One of the 
daughters, Milly, was about my own age ; a pleasant, good- 
natured girl. She made considerable pretensions, though I 
thought her rather coarse, as indeed all the family were, in 
comparison with the mother, with whom I was soon on 
intimate footing. 

Though she was so much older and wiser, and I looked 
up to her with reverence, yet I found it wonderfully easy to 
converse with her, and my natural reserve and bashfulness 
all left me in her presence. I enjoyed my stay there ex- 
tremely. The situation of the house and grounds was wild 
and picturesque, and quite charmed my youthful fancy. The 
house was on the side of a hill, and a ledge rose immedi- 
ately behind it, so high as to hide from view all beyond. 
Trees were growing on the top of the rock, and their thick 
branches almost came in at the open window of the cham- 
ber where I slept. 

Every morning I was awakened by the sweet carol of a 
multitude of birds, in their leafy bowers close to my head, 
beginning with early dawn, and giving me exquisite de- 
light, as I lay entranced, listening to the charming notes. 

Accompanied by Milly, or alone, I wandered over the 
wooded knolls and rocks. A great part of the farm was 
solitary and wild. I gathered curious pebbles and shells, 
and stored them up, which by chance coming to sight, long 
years afterwards, brought back in all its freshness, to my 
mind, this delightful visit. 


AN ADVENTURE. 


133 


CHAPTER XXI. 

AN ADVENTURE. 

One afternoon while I was at Aunt Brooks*, Milly 
obtained the management of old Grey Dobbin with the 
Wagon, to take me a ride, as she said, to show me the 
country. We were full of mirth and enjoyment, finding 
amusement in everything, and rode long and far, but where, 
I have not the least idea, except that we stopped, tied our 
horse to the remnant of a fence, and roamed over Bunker 
Hill. 

Milly told me she had often been here to pick barberries, 
and, indeed, the spot was covered with tall grass and 
bushes, the luxuriant growth of the soil watered by some 
of the bravest blood of the Revolution. 

We endeavored to trace the few indistinct marks, the 
uncertain vestiges of the signal battle fought there before 
we were born. My companion, struck, as it were, with a 
sudden spark of patriotism, assumed a tragic air of mock 
heroism, and exclaimed, “ Here the precious blood of the 
brave ran like rain 1 Here their valiant heads were laid 
low ! Oh, how I should admire to stay here all night and 
write blank verse P of which she had about as just an idea, 
probably, as of the odes of Anacreon in Greek ; her words, 
and the air with which they were spoken, were irresistible, 
and I burst out into a hearty laugh, seeming to her, no 


134 


HOME. 


douflt, altogether devoid of fine sentiment or poetic taste. 
She seemed inclined to verify her words, for we lingered 
until the sun was set, and even till the stars began to take 
their places in the clear blue sky, and the last plaintive 
notes of the birds died away in silence. 

Much as I enjoyed the loveliness of the scene, fear and 
the sense of unprotected loneliness began to be stronger, 
and I entreated Milly to return. But she assured me there 
was nothing to fear • that she should “ admire,” to ride 
home in the evening, and that she meant to show Bill, her 
brother, that she was not afraid to drive old Dobbin 
anywhere, for he was always saying it was not safe to 
trust her. At length, however, we. were on our homeward 
ride, as silent as we had before been lively and talkative. 

Milly was continually employed in urging the slow-paced 
beast to greater speed, for I believe she began to have 
some misgivings at the lateness of the hour, and the dis- 
tance still to be traversed. As for me, I was tortured by 
fears ; the way was strange ; I had heard stories of vio- 
lence and robbery, and everything we met made my heart 
flutter. We were not destined to reach home without 
accident ; as we were slowly ascending a long winding hill, 
there came suddenly upon us a man in a gig, driving down 
at the top of his speed He was somewhat intoxicated, 
and not seeing us in the darkness, or too reckless to heed 
any obstacle, he dashed along and struck our vehicle at full 
tilt. It gave way with a crash, while he drove on, and was 
soon far behind us, leaving me on the ground and Milly in 
the wagon, holding fast to the reins. Our faithful steed 


AN ADVENTURE. 


135 


stopped short, by which means Milly was saved from fall- 
ing. We were both uninjured, and found our way as best 
we could to the house, "which luckily, was not more than 
half a mile distant. The family were -somewhat anxiously 
watching our return, for it was now quite late in the 
evening. Poor Milly, somewhat crest-fallen, told her mis- 
hap, and bore as patiently as she was able, her brother's 
ireful reproaches. 

“ Strange, what silly critters girls are !” said he. “ They 
never know how to act ; for ever trying to do something 
they can ? t. I knew there’d be some difficulty, sure as they 
went on such a rigmarole errand 1” 

I stole away in the midst of the noise and talking, and as 
I was going up to my room, thoroughly tired and much 
troubled at the dolorous issue of our excursion, I heard 
Aunt Brooks, in her placid manner, trying to make all 
smooth. 

* l It's no great harm done, after all, since the girls are 
not hurt ; only to think of their meeting Tom Sikes, when 
he was so drunk. I don’t see as they could have done 
anything, so say no more about it ; come cheer up Milly, it 
might have been a great deal worse.” 

So Bill went to take care of the horse and the broken 
wagon, and the good motherly woman mixed a cordial for 
us “to settle our heads and better our spirits,” she' said, 
charging us to think no more about it, but to go right to 
sleep. This was not easy for me to do after such excite- 
ment, though Milly was not disposed to talk much about 
our adventure 


136 


HOME. 


The next morning I had no sooner risen and gone down 
stairs, than a sudden faintness came over me, and I was 
glad to be assisted back to my room and betake myself to 
bed. I was soon restored by the gentle, kind nursing of 
Aunt Brooks, and declared myself as well as ever, but she 
insisted on my keeping quiet, saying it was best for me to 
be quite alone for a time, that ruffled spirits required the 
rest and relief of solitude, and would come out clear and 
bright from silence and calm ; so she arranged everything 
for my comfort, and left me reclining on my couch opposite 
the open window. The pure morning air came in, breathing 
freshness ; the birds caroled their matin songs, and the 
checkered light glimmered through the green branches, and 
danced with the stirring of the leaves. The light soft 
motion, hushing to rest every unquiet feeling, tranquilized 
the soul and disposed to reflection ; at first, a delicious, 
dreamy sort of reverie came over me, deepening uncon- 
sciously into clear, serene and happy thought. It was 
one of those times common to the experience of most, when 
the imagination, sense, the whole conscious being, seems 
silently to retreat to the inmost chamber of the spirit. 
How much was sweetly revolved in my mind during those 
few hours ! The agitating scenes of the preceding day 
seemed to recede far into the past, like some faded dream, 
and the past to stand out before me, a vivid picture hung 
in the memory. 

I meditated long letters to my father and sisters ; all 
that had happened since I left them passed in review — 
Aunt Petty’s dwelling with their poor insane charge, hav- 


AN ADVENTURE. 


137 


ing a full share ; then making a sudden transition to the 
dim regions of the shadowy future, imaginings of all sorts 
filled up the broad but vague outline of my bounding 
anticipations and hopes. 

It was a delightful day to me, standing out even now 
from its fellows in peculiar brightness. The afternoon was 
spent alone with my kind and revered Aunt Brooks, whose 
very presence had power to diffuse around calm and sweet 
tranquillity. She read to me from a new magazine, and 
conversed entertainingly upon it. The subject was Shakes- 
peare, of whom I had before scarcely heard. From her 
remarks were derived my first correct impressions of his 
writings and wonderful genius. I expressed surprise, say- 
ing that I had considered plays as only written for amuse- 
ment, and at best, a doubtful kind of reading. In her 
reply she said, as nearly as I can recollect, that no other 
writer had portrayed our sex with such nice appreciation — 
such intuitive sense of the inherent qualities of woman — 
such exquisite truth in his portraitures, to the noblest and 
loveliest of her attributes ; and that the stijdy of his best 
female characters could not fail to have a most refining and 
ennobling effect upon tha mind ; “ at the same time,” added 
she, “there is so much in these plays that cannot be 
approved in spirit and tendency, that they should be read 
but sparingly by the young, and perhaps not at all, except 
under the eye of some judicious friend. I would not 
discourage you, my dear, from reading them,” she was so 
kind as to add, “nay, I advise you to embrace the first 
opportunity to peruse carefully some of the best.” 


138 


HOME. 


I replied that I should like much to do this under her 
guidance. This conversation became afterwards the germ 
of much pleasure and benefit to me when the subject was 
better understood, and her ideas, in a measure, realized in 
my own experience. The very next day, in fact, it being 
rainy, I began to act upon her suggestions, for, rummaging 
the shelves appropriated to books, in a cupboard in the 
corner of the spacious “ east room,” I came across an odd 
volume of Shakespeare, to my great delight, and spent most 
t)f the day absorbed with its contents. 

My mind was, however, too scantily cultured at that 
time to be any more than amused, yet it chanced, oddly 
enough, that when, not long after, I visited the theatre for 
the first and only time, the identical play, with some modifi- 
cations, was represented which I read that day. 

The memory of the benevolent face of Aunt Brooks is 
still before me, and my visit to her home was one of the 
greatest pleasures I enjoyed while awaiting the coming of 
Mary and her husband. 

This excellent and gifted lady, who appeared not to 
belong to the family or scenes around her, but to live 
among them a different being, and in another world — a 
world of her own, inspired in me love and confidence in a 
high degree, and I parted from her with regret 


“ MIDSTJMMEE NIGHT’S DEEAM.” 


139 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.” 

Aunt Brooks proposed herself to drive into Boston with 
me at the conclusion of my visit, but on the day appointed, 
and just as we were ready to leave, her own married daugh- 
ter rode up to the door, to make a visit of some days ; so I 
was obliged to take a seat in the daily hack plying between 
that place and Boston. I was the sole passenger, and being 
busy with my own thoughts, as usual, took no heed where 
I was going, and had gone several doors past the house, 
when the driver asking my destination, I told him, in my 
simplicity, that he need not be at the trouble to go back. 
He readily acceded to my gratuitous .offer, and I alighted 
in the street, leaving my little bundle of clothing in the car- 
riage. I was then quite fresh in the matter of public con- 
veyances. My things were carried away to the other side 
of the city, though Aunt Hastings, with some trouble, pro- 
cured them again. 

Nothing of importance occurred to mark the remainder 
of my stay, except my visit to the theatre, which was 
brought about very unexpectedly to myself. 

One evening Bessy had gone out to walk with a tall, 
grave, pleasing, and gentlemanly personage, who sometimes 
called, and with whom we now and then fell into company 
in the Mall. 


140 


HOME. 


On these occasions, I had more than once seen the quick 
blush on Bessy’s face, when answering his particularly kind 
and respectful greeting, and came to my own conclusions 
upon the subject. 

Aunt Hastings and I were sitting in her chamber ; I had 
been reading to her from the newspaper, till the softening 
shadows of twilight were gently falling around. I sat 
musing in silence by the window, listening to the ceaseless 
echo of footsteps on the pavement below. 

“ What are you in a brown study about, Anna ?” 

“I am thinking, aunt, about the notice of the theatre 
that I saw in the paper ; one of Shakspeare’s plays is to be 
acted to-morrow evening, and I should like much to see it. 
Do you ever go, Aunt Hastings ?” 

“We attended the theatre once, soon after we were 
married,” she replied ; “ I have had no wish to go since. I 
should not object to any one’s going for once, but the prac- 
tice of attending the theatre is one of the most pernicious 
of habits.” 

“Aunt Brooks,” said I, hesitatingly, “told me it was 
improving to read Shakspeare’s plays, and to study his 
female characters.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Brooks is a great reader, and finds some- 
thing to admire in every thing ; but though she may some- 
times read them, she would by no means approve of going 
to see the same plays acted.” 

“ Why not?” said I ; “it seems to me it would only be 
the more interesting.” 

“Undoubtedly it would, and also for that reason the 


“ MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.” 


141 


more pernicious. The late hours tend to destroy all sober 
and regular habits ; half the night spent in a state of fever- 
ish excitement unfits both mind and body for every duty, 
as well as all calm and rational enjoyments, even were there 
no bad influences from the sentiments, which, not seldom, 
are far from being pure and wholesome.” 

“But, aunt, why could not the best of them be acted in 
the day, and thus avoid that evil 7” 

“ Few would care to see them performed, when stripped 
of all the illusion consequent upon the glare and dazzle of 
evening lights. The fascination is chiefly, not in the play 
itself, but in the music, the rich decorations, the display of 
dress and gaiety, the high-wrought excitements of the place 
and hour, by which one is carried away. The heated fancy 
still craves renewal of the alluring pleasure, till property is 
squandered, business neglected, and all the duties of life 
become a disgust and burden. Many promising sons, who 
might have been a blessing to their parents, and to society, 
have been thus ruined for this world and the next. The 
passion for attending the theatre has been the inlet to all 
kinds of vice. My own son,” said she, “ might have taken 
the same course, but for the judicious 'restraint of his 
father; it was only just before his marriage that he saw 
the inside of a theatre ; and Bessy has never been, though 
I intend she shall gratify her curiosity on some fitting occa- 
sion. I do not object to a single visit ; perhaps it is well 
for each one to judge for himself ; nor will one be apt to 
judge wrong the first time, if properly educated.” 

My aunt’s remarks led to rather a revulsion of feeling in 


regard to going to the play ; but the next morning it 
chanced that Bessy’s friend, before alluded to met us in the 
Mall again, and spoke of the subject, saying that he did not 
make a practice of attending, but it was seldom that one of 
Shakspeare’s plays was represented ; and, in fine, he would 
be happy to have us occupy a box with him, with the sanc- 
tion of Bessy’s parents ; adding, that he would call and 
consult with them. 

He did so, and a party was made up, consisting of 
Cousin Joseph and his charming young wife, Bessy, her 
friend Mr. Lansing, and myself. I felt quite ashamed, 
afterwards, that all memory of the subject of the play, upon 
which I had previously thought so much, was lost in a con- 
fused, dazzling cloud of images, so delightful, so intoxi- 
cating to my senses, that my head was dizzy with pleasure 
and excitement. For a day or two after, I was in a bewil- 
dered maze of sweet sounds and gorgeous scenes of beauty. 
The play was the “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” of which I 
only recollect the descent of the fairies to their enchanted 
ring, as they gently and softly floated down one after 
another, wafted by some invisible agency, with the most per- 
fect grace and elegance in all their airy motions, enveloped 
by a light shadowy beauty, pervaded by a sort of haze 
which enhanced the illusion, while music distant and uncer- 
tain, but wild and sweet, completed the enchantment. 


A SEA VOYAGE. 


143 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A SEA VOYAGE. 

Mary now arrived, with my new brother, Doctor Emery, 
on whom I too was, for the time, dependent for protection 
as well as happiness. No brother could have been kinder ; 
all care and anxiety were confided to my companions as 
freely as a child abandons itself to its joyous pleasures, trust- 
ing in a father’s care. 

The little preparation they had to make was speedily 
accomplished, and in a few days our passage was bespoken 
in a dingy schooner — albeit the best to be found — waiting 
for favorable winds. 

We had no very sanguine expectations of pleasure, for 
Mary and I, it must be confessed, awaited almost trem- 
blingly our voyage to Bangor, which seemed to me then a 
committal of life and safety, as vast, perilous, and formida- 
ble, as now to circumnavigate the globe. 

Our friends talked most discouragingly of the prospect 
of going to the distant, dreary province of Maine, into the 
wild country and among wild Indians ; representing the 
rigors of the climate so great as to cause an average of six 
feet of snow, and a winter of six months’ continuance. Dr. 
Emery, however, though careful to give a moderate color- 
ing to our anticipations, bore, from actual knowledge, a 
more favorable testimony. This region was already attract-' 


HOME. 


144 

ing attention from enterprising men to its vast wealth of 
timber land, its majestic forests of almost ocean breadth, in 
which were already discerned the life of its traffic, and a 
broad basis of prosperity. Nor were inducements wanting 
in the awards of husbandry, to which the virgin soil, the 
pleasant aspect of the country, and above all, the low price 
of land, invited. 

It was a warm, bright evening, when at length, all being 
ready, we stood upon the deck of the little coasting vessel 
that was to convey us to the new settlement of Bangor, our 
first destination. Sitting on a rude bench, we watched the 
slowly receding city, bathed in a flood of amber light, from 
the glorious setting sun. 

“ Beautiful city 1” said I, “ farewell to your sumptuous 
dwellings, and your scenes of magnificence and gaiety!” 

“ And farewell, too, proud city 1” said Dr. Emery, “ to 
your busy multitudes, your merchandise, your traffic, and 
your wealth ; yet all this had a beginning — the rough cut- 
tings of the unhewn block must precede the polished shaft 
— so we go to lay the foundation ; the stern labor of com- 
mencing the edifice will .be our part in the new region to 
which we are bound.” 

“Yes,” said Mary, “less than two hundred years ago 
here the sea beat against a wild and solitary shore ; the 
first settlers called it the beautiful Tri-mountain, and spoke 
of the soft verdure which covered its triple crown, rising 
with graceful swell above the blue waters.” 

“ A few years later,” said her husband, “ the royal go- 
vernor of Massachusetts Colony had a Fort Pownal in this 


A SEA VOYAGE. 


14:5 


bay, with truck-house for trading with the Tarratines ; 
then there were forests all around, unexplored by the 
whites, and unknown except as the region and domain of 
the red man.” 

“Now a noble city has started into life and beauty,” 
said Mary ; “ an enduring monument of the piety, wisdom, 
and enterprise of our fathers.” 

“ Boston,” said Dr. Emery, “ is justly the pride of New 
England. She is yet in the morning of her strength — the 
race is before her.” 

Thus we conversed till darkness gathered around us ; it 
was a clear star-light night, and I gazed, spellbound, on the 
widening sweep of waters as we rapidly passed islet and 
headland, the distant light-houses sending their friendly 
rays far over the heaving waste. Soon we were upon the 
open sea, that rolled continuous for thousands of miles, that 
had rolled unchanged for thousands and thousands of 
years I 

What a grand, yet awful spectacle is the ocean ! What 
hosts of human beings have its waves devoured ! What 
treasures lie hid beneath its dark bosom ! Its restless tide 
flows on, ever the same ; generations may live and die, 
suffer or enjoy ; races of men start into existence, and be- 
come extinct ; cities may be settled, prosper, or perish ; 
commerce, wealth, science, philanthropy, flourish or decline ; 
the sea cares not — heeds not — it sleeps in calm, or it heaves 
and roars, it tosses, it dashes against the shore, all indepen- 
dent and alone. 

We sat in silence and in darkness, while the gleam of the 

7 


14=6 


HOME. 


dark waters shot up, ever and anon, like the fearful eye of 
a giant thing of life, filling the soul with mysterious awe 
and terror, as our bark rolled on over the heaving tide. 
Ere long all sense and feeling were lost, save a troubled 
consciousness of tossing, pitching, plunging, in a wild whirl 
of confusion, and Dr. Emery could scarce attend us to the 
cabin, ere himself needed assistance. 

The passage was long and stormy, the little vessel rocked 
from side to side most unmercifully' : most unlike it was to 
the rapid and smooth transit of our modern, commodious, 
and elegant steamers over the same waters. Even danger 
came near, for, after being tossed about for some days on 
the open sea by the fury of the winds, when the storm at 
last ceased, the night shut in cloudy and dark, and all at 
once we were startled by an unusual noise and confusion, fol- 
lowed by a sudden crash, and instant rush of all movable 
things into one mass. The vessel was thrown upon her 
side, she having in the darkness “run foul” of a fishing 
craft, making a most narrow escape from being capsized 
and sent to the bottom. The next morning we were 
rejoiced to find ourselves in Penobscot Bay, coming into 
calm water. The crew and passengers were talking eagerly, 
in high excitement, over the accident, of the night, all agree- 
ing that it was an almost miraculous escape, and the cap- 
tain boasted the superior rigging of the schooner, to which 
he declared our safety had been owing. W eak and misera- 
ble as I felt, I was forced to laugh heartily at the earnest 
gestures of one man, an old sea captain, half intoxicated ; 
he pressed eagerly up to each one, reiterating in a loud voice, 


A SEA VOYAGE. 147 

and in the queerest manner, “ Oh ! I tell you we ’scaped a 
great marcy ; we ’scaped a wonderful great marcy !” 

Soon after this we were becalmed, and lay at anchor near 
an island, where it was proposed to go ashore, as the best 
remedy for sea-sickness. Mary was extremely timid on the 
water, and would not trust herself to the frail-looking boat, 
but I had no fear, and longed to set foot on land again, 
even for a few minutes. 

The gentlemen proffered their best assistance. The bluff, 
good-humored captain said, “ Yes, give her a smack of the 
land breeze, and she’ll get her color back again,” and taking 
me right up in his arms, he handed me over the side of the 
vessel, as if I had been a little child. We soon reached the 
long, low island, and finding some blueberry bushes, I 
plucked some of the leaves, and ate them for very love and 
longing for something from the green earth. Yo sooner 
had I swallowed them than I felt instant relief, all nausea 
was gone, I was a new being, and experienced at once the 
“gladness that bathes the spirit in that one feeling of 
health, when the flow of nature’s vital flood is pure and 
unimpeded 1” 

After rambling and scrambling among the rocks and 
bushes for half an hour, proving with every step “the 
vivid sense of what there is delightful in the breeze,” I 
returned, extolling the virtue of the blueberry leaves, but 
Mary laughingly declared them without efficacy unless 
eaten on land. She was now, however, quite recovered, as 
well as I. 

We lingered along for lack of wind, spending one entire 


148 


HOME. 


day on shore, in quite a social manner ; notwithstanding 
the delay, the passage up the river was pleasant to us, we 
were in the mood to enjoy everything now, the varieties *of 
the coast, the little villages seen from time to time, and now 
and then the lone house on the shore, overlooking the broad 
tranquil river. We arrived at Bangor just at evening 
and walked to the only tavern, a few rods distant, the 
motion of the vessel making the ground appear to rise to 
meet me at every step. 

Dr. Emery had his few household goods and effects 
stored in a small building, which stood alone on the landing, 
and was, when the tide was- in, quite over the water. It 
belonged to one of our fellow passengers, Captain Stephens, 
a military gentleman of talent and education, who subse- 
quently attained some rank in the United States’ service. 


BANGOR. 


149 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

BANG OR. 

The next morning we looked around the new town, then 
almost a wilderness, but giving evident promise of future 
importance. 

It occupied a low, level space near the shore, or rather 
on both sides of the wild, romantic Kenduskeag, here join- 
ing the main river, Penobscot, which making a bend round 
a considerable point of land, formed a fine harbor, already 
inviting a brisk trade in fishing and lumber. 

The tributary stream was crossed by a small ferry-boat 
near where it emptied, and its course could be seen for some 
distance, deeply shaded by thick trees and overhanging 
bushes. The banks rising more or less abruptly, to a high 
hill on either side, were almost wholly covered with the prime- 
val growth of the forest. Two or three comfortable houses, 
some small cottages and log-huts, together with a number 
of stores and shops, on the “flat” near the shore, com- 
prised at that time, the whole of Bangor, even the limited 
space that was cleared being defaced by many an unsightly 
stump. 

Dr. Emery left after two or three days, to return for ns 
as soon as he should be able to arrange things comfortably 
in the new home, to which we were going. 

Our landlady, good Mrs. Bolls, was extremely kind to us. 


150 


HOME. 


She was an admirable woman; kind, cheerful, prompt, and 
efficient, she managed her large household with equal discre- 
tion and good temper. I seem to hear her voice even now, 
as she was wont to speak to her rough, unprincipled husband 
in such a pleasant, lively way, yet with a touch of reproof 
at his rude oaths or thoughtless words : it was the autho- 
rity of goodness and not seldom he felt and yielded to it. 

They had a daughter, Eleanor, about two years younger 
than myself, a confident and forward girl, good-natured 
withal and kind-hearted, quite mistress of herself on all 
occasions : she would laugh and talk saucily with the young 
men at her father’s table, with Jthe greatest ease and 
assurance, while I could scarcely converse at all, but my 
tell-tale cheeks would painfully betray my tynidity and 
embarrassment. 

Miss Eleanor attached herself to me, and I was soon 
quite at home with her. 

Not a little attention was bestowed upon Mary and 
myself. Dr. Emery’s character and bearing commanded 
respect, and Mary always won favor from her sprightliness 
and charming agreeable manner, no less than the unaffected 
sweetness of her nature. ’As for myself, I was but a child 
in feeling or experience, innocent quite of any wish or 
thought of particular attention from the other sex. 

I could sing songs, laugh and frolic in happy thoughtless- 
ness, wondering at the notice I received, not deeming myself 
fit for the companionship of gentlemen so much older, so 
accomplished, apparently, in all that makes up what is 
called the “ air of fashion” and “ knowledge of the world 


BAUGOE. 


151 


for society then and there, was by no means without preten- 
sion to elegance, refinement and high breeding, and justly 
too, though the numbers were so few, that every accession 
was hailed with warm welcome. From the very paucity 
of ladies, Mary and I were complimented with all the charm- 
ing category of agreeable things, so that my poor, little 
foolish head was in danger of being quite turned by the 
attention and flattery I received. 

One day, accompanied by our friend Eleanor and Captaiu 
Stephens, before mentioued, we went out for a walk, wan-- 
dering along the curving, irregular shore of the river, in 
some places jagged with projecting rocks, in others smooth, 
with here and there an old tree left standing alone. On 
the opposite side, two or three log-houses were seen half hid 
among the trees, and behind them appeared a wood-capped 
eminence of broad, gentle outline ; further on, up the river, 
the high bank, covered with dark green bushes, threw a 
deep shadow quite across the water, contrasting finely with 
the nearer view, which lay in soft sunshine, wrapped in the 
hazy atmosphere of an autumn afternoon. 

Around the landing, and at various points up and down 
the river, groups of fishermen were engaged with their nets; 
it was a lively, busy scene, to me as novel as it was inte- 
resting. 

Near where we stood were two men on a rock in the 
edge of the water, with a basket-like net held by two poles 
as a handle, which they dipped in, bringing up each time 
the struggling fishes, and throwing them successively on the 
bank, high and dry. 


152 


HOME. 


u This is beautiful I” said Mary. 11 The dark shadow on 
the water, with the green bushes on the hill above, forms a 
perfect picture of repose and quiet. What can be more 
graceful than those tall pines and firs lifting their tops 
against the sky, as if guarding over the still river beneath ?” 

“The great number of evergreens adds much to the 
beauty of the forests of Maine,” said Captain Stephens, 
“ giving them a verdant appearance, even after the wintry 
frosts have dismantled other trees and lighter foliage.” 

“ But,” said Mary, my eye misses the bright, variegated 
tints of our autumn woods ; this depth of green looks 
solemn and melancholy.” 

“ It is true,” he replied, “ we have here very few of those 
beautiful trees which give such brilliancy to the autumn 
landscape in most of New England.” 

“ I think,” said Mary, “ the dark blue tint of the fir is 
the most mournful-looking of all nature’s infinite varieties 
of green, and the woods must appear sombre and dark, even 
in midsummer, with so much of the evergreen.” 

“ Oh, no,” he replied ; “ I have never seen more beautiful 
vegetation than in Maine. Nature is bountiful every where, 
and we have a sufficient sprinkling of bright green to throw 
into fine relief the deeper verdure ; while the cooler nights 
and more plentiful dews give a soft and fresh aspect to 
summer landscape, seen only in spring in your own Massa- 
chusetts.” 

“ See,” I exclaimed, “ what a quantity of fishes those 
men below us have just drawn up, and look at the bank 
above — it is covered with them.” 


BANGOR. 


153 


“ Those are ale wives,” said Captain Stephens ; “it is a 
fine day for them : not many more will be caught this sea- 
son ; it is almost their last chance.” 

“ Oh,” said Eleanor, “ I have had rare sport, many a 
time, catching them. We girls used to get a large handker- 
chief — sometimes our aprons — and dip it down by the cor- 
ners : we often caught several at a time.” 

“ What could you want of them ?” I asked. 

“ Oh, just as the fancy took us ; sometimes we carried 
them home, and sometimes put th^ji back into the water. 
The sport was in catching them. But once I slipped in, 
and though I scrambled out again, it was a most thorough 
ducking, and frightened me from it awhile.” 

“ They are loading those two vessels yonder,” said Cap- 
tain Stephens. 

“ Are there many,” asked Mary, “ employed in fishing as 
a trade ?” 

“ Ah, yes ; it is the life of our business. I have seen, in 
the height of the season, more than a dozen vessels at a 
time taking cargoes : many hundred barrels of fish are 
shipped daily, principally alewives, but great quantities of 
shad too.” 

“Are those delicious salmon caught in this river?” 

“ Not so frequently as formerly ; they retreat before the 
face of man and civilization, and find refuge in quiet, lonely 
streams, unvexed by the noise of busy labor, and the creak- 
ing of saw-mills.” 

We were now on our way home, and being near the store 
of Captain Stephens, on the wharf, in the chamber of which 

7 * 


154 


HOME. 


our effects were stored, Mary and I went in to take some 
things from the chests. Among other articles, Mary took 
out and put on a satin cardinal, trimmed with fur, quite 
rich and stylish, which she had procured in Boston. When 
we came down stairs to our two companions, the increased 
air of consideration and deference yielded to the handsome 
furred cardinal was very perceptible, and caused us no little 
amusement ; nor was that the only occasion on which honor 
was given to our “trappings” merely. The idea seemed 
very absurd to me the^for I was new to the world ; I had 
been estimated in my own native Wayland by the actual 
knowledge of my townsmen, not measured merely by appear- 
ances. 

Dr. Emery had been gone about a week, when we heard 
it mentioned at dinner that a clergyman from Massachusetts 
had arrived the preceding day. 

We took little heed of the information, but in the course ( 
of an hour or two after a gentleman called, and on being 
summoned, to our great surprise and joy we saw our own 
beloved minister, Mr. Rice, of Wayland. 

He informed us that he had accepted a mission to spend 
several weeks in this remote place, destitute at that time of 
any stated worship : he was now a guest in a private family 
across the “ stream.” 

Oh ! how delighted we were to see him — an old friend in 
a strange land ! We had a long interview, conversing first 
upon our own private affairs, then upon the situation and 
promise of the flourishing little settlement in which we had 
so unexpectedly met. He spoke with much feeling of the 


BANGOK. 


155 


want of religious interest, and of the immense importance 
that a right direction should be given to the influence of a 
place so promising, yet open to so many evil tendencies, 
from the diverse character of the inhabitants, brought hither 
from various places and by different motives. 

Just as he was leaving us, he took me by the shoulder, 
and regarding me awhile, smilingly said, “ It seems but a 
year or two since you were a little child, playing about 
under the trees ; now you are a young lady. I suppose 
you will be getting married one of these days ; possibly 
before you are again under the wing of your father j but 
remember one thing'” added he, affectionately, almost 
solemnly, “ be sure that you get a husband , when you are 
married ; many girls marry, and do not find a husband, and 
much better had it been for them to have remained alone.” 

I was quite confused at this address, but thanked him, 
telling him I thought it wise counsel, and trusted I should 
remember it. 

The next day our good minister came again, accompanied 
by his hostess, Mrs. Woleby. She invited us, most cor- 
dially, to spend the ensuing week at her house, in the com- 
pany of our beloved pastor. 

We gladly accepted the polite invitation, and thus formed 
a pleasing acquaintance with a most estimable family, who 
subsequently proved valuable friends. 


156 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XXV 

THE VISIT. 

“ Be such, and only such, my friends, 

Once mine, and mine forever.” 

At our new friend’s we were made to feel ourselves quite 
at home. Emilia, the only daughter, was a lovely, gentle 
girl, saying little herself, yet enjoying much the conversa- 
tion of others ; she could sing some of my songs with me ; 
she loved to read, too, and many a good time we had to- 
gether in her own little chamber, poring over the same book. 

With Mrs. Woleby, too, we felt acquainted at once ; she 
was so essentially motherly in her every look, with a thought- 
ful, clear, grey eye — her whole aspect indicative of good 
sense, cheerfulness, and energy. 

The house, one of the best in the village, was on the 
sloping bank of the Kenduskeag, a few rods from the river, 
which, opposite the house, was quite concealed from view 
by the thick trees on its banks ; a little further down, to- 
ward the ferry, Mr. Woleby’s shop, made of new pine 
boards, stood on the brink of the water ; a road led to the 
ferry, but in every other direction mere foot-paths led into 
the yet uncleared forest. 

Nothing more excited my curiosity and deep interest than 
the native Indians, who came frequently around, entered 
the houses familiarly, with baskets to sell, sometimes with 


THE VISIT. 


157 


fish or game which they had obtained, always anxious to 
trade, and very shrewd and grasping in making their bar- 
gains. 

One morning, by chance looking from the window, I saw 
an Indian coming up the walk to the door, with all the slow 
gravity of their manner. 

I took some work in my hand, and quietly seated myself 
in the kitchen, to which he was approaching, that I might 
gratify my curiosity in seeing and hearing this native of the 
soil. 

His object was easily divined, for he had a large salmon 
supported on his crossed arms. He came in, took the chair 
offered him, with an unconcerned look, without speaking, or 
even looking towards any one in the room. 

“ Good morning, brother l” said Mrs. Woleby, pleasantly. 

He murmured something in a low tone, still without rais- 
ing his eyes. 

“ What money do you want for your fish ?” said she. 

“ Fish very big,” said he, without the movement of a 
muscle. 

“ Oh, yes ! very good one ; but I have meat for dinner,” 
said she, pointing to the pot over the fire. 

He preserved a dignified silence of several minutes. 

After a time she offered him what she deemed a sufficient 
price for the fish, which was a fine one, but he was not so 
easily satisfied ; he continued in the same posture, with 
the same unaltered composure of manner, making a remark 
from time to time, as — 

“ Me just catch him ; he fresh ; he very big ; me want 


158 


HOME. 


great piece of money f closing, .after a while, with naming 
his price, which was exorbitant. 

Mrs. Woleby was accustomed to deal with these people, 
and finally obtained the fish at a fair price ; taking care to 
pay him chiefly in pork, and other articles of provision, to 
lessen the temptation on his part to procure rum, the bane 
and destruction of the poor Indian. 

While he sat there, Mr. Rice came in ; he was a man of 
commanding carriage, very tall, with piercing eyes, and 
black hair. The red man watched him awhile intently, 
then, as if surprised out of his usual reserve, he exclaimed, 

“You a big man ; who made you ?” 

This question from the poor uututored man, though so 
amusing, affected Mr. Rice, and he sought to enter into 
conversation with him, but could scarcely obtain a reply — 
perhaps he felt his want of a command of words, and was 
too proud to show his ignorance. 

Mary was quite taken up with our recital of the incident, 
and an excursion was planned to some camps a few miles up 
the river, but a heavy rain prevented our going, to my great 
disappointment. Mr. Rice, however, went to visit them at 
their station on a large island in the river, at some distance. 
He spent a day there, and had a long conversation with 
their chief, from whom he gained much knowledge of his 
tribe — the once powerful Tarrateens — whose sway extended 
so far westerly that they successfully coped with the fierce 
Mohawks in many a bloody battle. On his return, Mr. Rice 
described to us, most vividly, his talk with the old chief — 
the dark fire that glowed in his eye, as he recounted, by 


THE VISIT. 159 

emphatic gestures, the stirring deeds of his fathers — his 
whole soul roused into intense excitement. 

The delightful week of our visit quickly flew over our 
heads, and we repaired again to our lodgings and temporary 
home. Our excellent Mrs. Bolles seemed as glad to see us 
as if we had been old friends, and Eleanor was wild in her 
demonstrations of joy, capering about the room full of talk 
and glee ; but the kind welcome given us by the aged 
grandmother, Madam Bolles, was really touching. 

She was quite infirm, and, with a deformed, sickly daugh- 
ter, also advanced in life, occupied a chamber just across 
the passage from us. Mary had spent much time entertain- 
ing them in her own sweet way, conversing, singing, or 
ministering to their comfort ; for my dear sister, let me say, 
was tireless in every meek and sweet modification of wo- 
manly duty. The tears ran down the good old lady’s cheeks, 
as she clasped her with trembling and withered hands, bless- 
ing her that she had come back again to comfort her. 


160 


HOME. 


CHAPTFR XXYI. 

AN EVENING AT MRS. WOLEBY’S. 

Not many more days passed before Dr. Emery come, pre- 
pared to escort us to our new home ; he could, however, 
take only one at a time, so I was to wait a few days longer 
till he could return again for me. Travelling was very diffi- 
cult and dangerous, there being in that direction no roads 
except a mere bridle-path cut through the forest, occasion- 
ally trodden by a few ox teams. 

The evening previous to their departure was spent at 
Mrs. Woleby’s ; the pleasure of seeing Mr. Rice being as 
great and unexpected to Dr. Emery as it had been to Mary 
and myself. We all enjoyed the evening much. 

How forcibly memory recalls the pleasant room, the 
large open fireplace, the huge, slowly-burning logs — for it 
was cool autumn weather. The conversation, too, how dis- 
tinctly it comes to my mind. Much was said of the wild- 
ness of the region, the difficulties and hardships of the first 
occupants of the untamed soil, with its resources and 
rewards for the enterprising. 

But the especial interest of the evening was in the rela- 
tion of a thrilling incident in Mrs. Woleby’s own experience, 
which, as nearly as I can recollect, was in these words : 

“ One morning,” she began, “in the early part of last 
June, I left home in fine spirits to pay a long-promised visit 


AN EVENING AT MRS. WOLEBY’s. 161 

to an old friend and schoolmate, who lives on a newly 
improved farm about two miles up the stream, and on the 
opposite bank. To reach my friend’s, it was necessary to 
follow the winding cow-path on this side for half a mile, to 
a place where the trunk of a large pine had fallen across 
the narrow stream. Crossing this primitive bridge, a walk 
of a mile through the woods led me to the opening in which 
stood the house. My visit was delightful, for we had been 
long asunder and had much to say. 

“We lingered over the parting words till the sun grew 
low in the western sky, when I commenced my homeward 
walk, and though I hastened with quick step, the dark 
shadows that gathered around my path warned me of 
approaching night. 

“ When I emerged from the thick woods and came to 
the rude log bridge, the early twilight showed me a black 
object on the end of the log at the opposite bank, and a few 
minutes sufficed to confirm my worst fears — it was a large 
black bear. Agitation and terror at first deprived me of 
all thought ; but lifting my heart to the God of the defence- 
less, and rallying my presence of mind, I began to think 
what I could do. To return to my friend’s house, would 
not only be unsafe in the darkness, but my absence would 
alarm the fears of my family ; to attempt to reach home in 
any other direction than across the fated bridge was vain, 
and not to be thought of. 

“ Finally, I sat down by a tree to watch my companion — 
the grim sentinel of the other side. 

11 1 had heard that this animal did not, like wolves and 


162 


HOME. 


other wild beasts, prowl around in the night, and I hoped 
that ere long he would retire into the deeper shades of the 
woods ; so, with beating heart and the most feverish 
anxiety, I awaited his movements. Almost an hour I 
continued in this strange situation ; the summer night wind 
cooled my face, and the ruddy twilight which shone through 
the branches of the trees, and softened the bright verdure 
around me, deepened into uniform dull shade, when at 
length my straining eyes saw the black object move, and 
presently Bruin, slowly rising, walked off leisurely into the 
woods. 

“ I have no recollection of my passage across the log, but 
I was soon traversing the woods with hasty step, not ven- 
turing a glance into the thicket around. 

“ Almost flying over the ground, I gained the more open 
path among the low bushes ; here I overtook a boy driving 
home some cows, and seldom has the sight of a human face 
been more welcome.” 

We had listened with breathless attention to this true 
story of startling adventure. Many praises were bestowed 
on Mrs. Woleby’s courage and presence of mind. An 
animated conversation followed upon similar scenes, wit- 
nessed or heard of by those present. 

Mary related the account of our grandmother’s encoun- 
ter with a bear, which I have already narrated, and Mrs. 
Woleby told us some of the peculiar characteristics of this 
ferocious animal, of which I remember one was the tender- 
ness of his nose, his most vulnerable point, to defend which, 
he will instantly drop any booty he may have secured. 


AN EVENING- AT MRS. WOLEBY’s. 163 

The next morning, taking an affectionate leave of the 
friends who had shown us so much kindness, Mary left 
Bangor on horseback with her husband for a tedious day’s 
ride, though but twenty miles to their home, the settlement 
of Clemence. 

The day passed rather heavily with me, for I did not 
relish being left behind ; but early the next morning letters 
came from home. Oh, how my heart leaj^ed at the well- 
known characters, and how doubly impatient I was now to 
reach my destination, that Mary might read them too, for 
we had longed — oh, how much ! to know how all was going 
on with those dear ones, whose names were so often on our 
lips. 

Grace gave us a lively picture of all that had taken 
place at home ; and Bessy, dear Bessy, with her anxious 
sisterly expressions of affection mingled many kind hints and 
suggestions modestly set forth, just like herself. One thought 
I remember was this — that in going among strangers it is 
very important to discriminate character, and not to yield 
implicit trust on too short acquaintance — a lesson of much 
practical value to one so ignorant of the world, and so 
unsuspecting as I then was. 


164 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

THE NEW HOME. 

“ Around their hearth by night, 

What gladsome looks of household love 
Met in the ruddy light.” 


Three long days of expectation elapsed, ere a messenger 
appeared to conduct me to Clemence, for Dr. Emery could 
not leave. It was a dull, chill day, and a gloomy ride I 
had. The man walked by my side to assist in difficult 
places, for my horse stumbled frequently over stumps, roots 
of trees, and deep hollows of mud, in the miserable road 
through the woods. 

So thick were the trees, and so dark, sad, and heavy- 
colored looked the autumn foliage, that the forest was 
literally black on either side the narrow path. 

Before half the day was concluded, each thump of the 
rough road gave me a severe pain in the side, and when at 
last I arrived, about dark, I was fain to go to bed with 
head throbbing, without a look at my new home. 

The next day I could not sit up without fainting, but 
“youth repairs its wasted spirits quickly,” and I soon began 
to take a peep at the strange place in which I found myself, 
which I felt to be home, since it was with Mary and her 
husband. 


THE NEW HOME. 


165 


She was most lively and cheerful, neatly arranging her 
simple furniture in the very small, unfurnished cottage, 
which, however, was the sole framed house in the settle- 
ment. 

The settlement consisted of about a dozen houses, 
extending a mile or two along the narrow road, a mere 
uneven, muddy lane, the small “ opening ” of dun-colored, 
stump-ridden fields being closed in by lofty interminable 
woods. 

Here was no graceful Pine-mountain lifting its friendly 
head, no picturesque valley or running brook, neither pretty 
groves, nor waving orchards, nor neat gardens ; nothing 
but dreary fields and half-cleared pastures, in which a few 
stunted cattle were gleaning the last scanty herbage. 

There was the same sky indeed, the deep, serene October 
heavens now beaming down upon us, -and again murky and 
troubled, tempestuous with warring winds, the gloomy pre- 
sages of coming winter. 

Yet in this little place, shut in by the blue overhead, and 
the wall of dark woods around, was abundant scope for the 
display of the ever-interesting actors in the drama of life, 
the fair and lovely in humanity, the kind and good, the 
curious and grotesque — all were represented, for there is 
everywhere a “ something in all features, and all tones of 
voice, and all manners, betokening origin from one root,” 
and creating a bond of sympathy between human beings, as 
such, wherever they meet. 

Monotonous and dull as the place looked in the naked- 
ness of autumn desolation, it was yet a ridge of excellent 


166 


HOME. 


land, rewarding well the hardy cultivators of its strong, 
deep soil. 

Fine crops of wheat and other grains were raised, but 
the difficulty of transporting their produce to market, and 
of obtaining other things in exchange, caused a scanty 
supply of the comforts the farmers could not themselves 
# manufacture. 

Nothing could exceed the beautiful simplicity, the unaf- 
fected kindness and warm friendship of those few, but most 
worthy families. Seldom has it fallen to the lot of mortals 
to receive more cordial sympathy and affection than were 
bestowed upon us by our neighbors. The most kindly feel- 
ing, deeds of love, and a sincere friendly interest in each 
other’s welfare seemed to unite them together almost as one 
family. 

We were especially welcomed by this isolated little com- 
munity, for Dr. Emery was the only physician in a circuit of 
many miles, and his settlement among them was hailed 
with joy. 

Dur house contained one moderate-sized common room, 
and a smaller sleeping apartment, each closed up with pine 
boards, unpainted and unplastered, looking, it must be 
confessed, very much like a barn, or rude shop. My sleep- 
ing room was the low, irregular chamber, where between 
the huge chimney and the little square window was ample 
space for my bed, which Mary, with true sister’s art to 
please, had arrayed in her prettiest counterpane. 

She had also hung against the rude chimney opposite the 
bed, a pretty picture of Mary, Queen of Scots, a fine old 


THE NEW HOME. 


167 


painting, which had been given her in Boston. Indeed she 
had almost robbed the rooms below to give a cheerful, 
inviting aspect to my little loft. 

The owner of the house, Mr. Asa Worth, who also owned 
a large farm with it, shortly after we came, added another 
sleeping room of rough boards, and took up his lodgings 
with us for the winter. 

His presence in the house gave to Mary and me a feeling 
of security, in the long winter evenings when Dr. Emery 
was detained by a sick patient, and we should otherwise 
have been left alone. He was a man of upright character 
and dignified bearing, and we soon learned to respect and 
value him, as a friend on whom we could rely. 


168 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SUNDAY SCENES. 

Just across the road from us stood a new barn, partly 
finished, in a tolerably smooth field, which, with the farm 
belonging to it, had been recently sold, and the new owner 
was shortly expected to take possession. 

This barn had been, during the summer, the appointed 
place for religious meetings, and I recall quite vividly my 
first Sabbath, only a day or two after I arrived, with the 
strange, queer, comical aspect that every thing bore to my 
eyes. 

Rough board seats were laid across from side to side, 
and a motley group covered them Old and young, with 
every variety of fashion and form in dress and appearance. 
Children, women with infants in their arms, dogs rubbing 
their noses against one and another as they ran about, 
seeking out every crevice and corner of the strange church, 
while children gambolled, and babies crowed and screamed. 

But the preacher — oh 1 how unlike all our previous con- 
ceptions of 

“ The holy man with rev’rent air, 

In decent garb arrayed.” 

He was a youngish man, almost boorish in aspect, coarse 
and illiterate in language. His long, yellow hair hung 
down his neck like strings, and he spoke in a sing-song 


SUNDAY SCENES. 


169 


voice, keyed to its highest pitch ; earnest and sincere, how- 
ever, he seemed, and many of his hearers listened with 
devout and serious attention. 

But, joined to his earnest words, his sincere* exhortations, 
and Scripture aptly quoted, were innumerable blunders ; 
and at last, after x many sudden turns and digressions, he 
began declaiming against human “ larnin ;” stating, what . 
none could doubt, that he never thought beforehand of 
what he should preach : to do so, would be sinful distrust 
of the Lord, who taught him what to say. 

“ Just think of Saint Paul,” said he. “ The Bible says he 
was brought up at the foot of Gamel Hill, which must have 
been in a barren, mountainous country, where he had no 
chance at all for larnin.” 

This was the climax : I laughed from sheer necessity, 
and Mary joined with me, though against her will, for we 
had been too well instructed to allow us to turn into ridi- 
cule any meeting for the sincere worship of God. 

When we got home, Dr. Emery seated himself by the fire, 
and laughed heartily. “ Here you have a specimen of our 
Sabbaths,” said he, “and of our very instructive religious 
teachers ; and surely it requires an expanded intellect to 
receive his conclusions respecting Saint PauPs bringing up.” 
We laughed again. 

“ Oh, Mary!” said I, “ can it do one any good to attend 
such meetings as these ?” 

“Certainly,” she answered, “they are far better than 
none ; this preacher may be sincerely pious, unlettered as 
he is, and perhaps he and his hearers are more acceptable 

8 


170 


HOME. 


in the eyes of our Heavenly Father than many of the great 
and wise who meet in costly temples, surrounded with all 
that wealth and luxury can bestow.” 

“ But only think of his blunders,” said I j “ how can one 
help laughing in his face ?” 

“ These blunders,” said Mary, “ though ludicrous enough, 
do not. affect the heart, nor alter the Bible itself, nor its 
truth.” 

“ I wonder,” said I, “ that so many should be found to 
come to hear such preaching.” 

“ In these lonely neighborhoods,” said Dr. Emery, 
“ where life is comparatively solitary and uneventful, every 
occasion for mingling together the social human sympathies 
is hailed with eagerness. The people come together to see 
each other, especially the young folks.” 

“I thought there seemed evidence of deep religious 
feeling, too, in many of those present to-day,” said Mary. 

“ Oh yes,” said he, carelessly — for at that time the sub- 
ject was a matter of indifference to him — “ the religious 
element is strong in every human breast ; man is ever 
reaching after something higher than himself.” 

“I love to view this tendency in another light,” said 
Mary: “that God, in his boundless mercy, is reaching 
down an arm of love to draw the wayward hearts of his 
creatures to himself.” 

“ That is truly a beautiful thought ; worthy of you, my 
Mary ; and it may be so. I noticed the rapt interest 
beaming in Mrs. Paul's face ; that woman,” said he, “ came 


SUNDAY SCENES. 171 

not less than four miles through woods, where there is 
scarcely a path thfough the tangled bushes.” 

“Is it not dangerous?” asked I, recollecting Mrs. Wole- 
by’s adventure. 

“ It might be, perhaps, to traverse it alone, but several 
go in company ; trees are marked, from point to point, to 
guide in the right path ; many come from that distance, 
whenever there is a meeting.” 

This conversation was just after the morning service ; 
the preacher went on his way to another congregation, for 
the evening, and the afternoon meeting was “carried on” 
among themselves, several, by turns, giving “a word of 
exhortation.” 

One addressed us as '“this intelligible congregation,” and 
told us we were “ born to trouble as the sparks are that fly 
upward .” Another, who stooped so much as to appear 
momentarily in danger of falling, and whose common appel- 
lation was “Broken-backed Josh,” talked glibly a long 
while, repeating an indefinite number of times, “ Let us 
pluck ambrosial fruits from life’s fair tree.” 

Others, however, spoke in a manner to which no excep- 
tion could be taken ; all were, doubtless, sincere and con- 
scientious in the discharge of duty, and thus were accept- 
able in the sight of Him who looketh on the heart ; and 
their self-denying efforts to sustain religious worship were 
worthy of all praise. 

After this, the meetings were transferred to the log- 
houses of the settlement, where they were held in turn 
through the winter, the barn, which had proved so commo- 


172 


HOME. 


dious during the summer, being now called in requisition 
for the temporary shelter of the family of its owner. 

This family, consisting of his wife and two children, 
shared with us our scanty accommodations for a week, 
while the husband fitted up his barn-dwelling with a rude 
chimney and some partitions. 

Thus prepared, the dwelling was as comfortable and com- 
modious as many of the other houses in the little village. 



I 


OUR NEIGHBORS. 


173 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

OUR NEIGHBORS. 

“ Think us no churls ; nor measure our good minds 
By this rude place we live in.” 

We soon became acquainted with each family who lived 
near us, our new neighbors, visiting among them freely, and 
receiving visits in return. 

Ho small variety of character was found in that narrow 
circle. 

There was Mrs. Tibbs, tall and bony, with deep furrowed 
face, and grizzled hair, bristling out from under her cap, 
over her sharp little grey eyes. 

She possessed a singular faculty for mangling and disjoint- 
ing her words, distorting them in the most ludicrous man- 
ner. Scarcely a sentence of our mother tongue left her 
lips but it underwent a process of clipping and garbling. 

She was a strange being — an exemplification of the truth 
that in actual life, individuals are found, who, if faithfully 
described, would be pronounced forced, unnatural charac- 
ters. 

This queer old woman was jokingly called “ Aunt Kitty,” 
from her partiality for cats, for she always had about her a 
goodly number and variety of the feline race. 

She lived, with her daughter, in a little hut quite near us, 


174 


HOME. 


professing the deepest poverty, though it was well known 
that her husband, an industrious, clever man, had left her a 
comfortable provision. She was penurious and grasping, 
and had once or twice been surprised in counting her money. 
On one occasion, Dr. Emery himself having dealings with 
her, saw her reluctantly produce some of her precious store 
from its singular place of concealment — the straw bed ! 

When any one bestowed a favor upon her, she was lavish 
in her praise and flattery ; but if called upon to part with 
her idol, even to pay a just demand, she complained bitterly 
of her destitution, and the unfriendly dealings of others. 

I went to her hut once with some nice bit ; she loaded 
me with thanks and praises, declaring nobody was so kind, 
extolling the doctor to the skies, and Mary too, say- 
ing, 

“ She is a pretty critter, and she dresses as good as. a 
queen ; but,” she added, heaving a sigh, “ beauty nor fine 
clothes can’t pervent her life — she’ll lies as low as any on 
us 1” 

Aunt Kitty never failed being present at the meetings, 
always with a Bible or hymn-book in her hand, and swaying 
herself backward and forwards. Then, during the whole 
time of singing, exhortation, and prayers, she kept her eyes 
riveted upon the good book, as if some potent charm per- 
tained to it, while, in truth, she knew not how to read a 
word. 

Her daughter Marcy, inoffensive and quiet, extremely 
limited in the range of her ideas, was a mere patient drudge 
to her mother. She was simple-minded and single-hearted, 


OTJR NEIGHBORS. 175 

most conscientious in her narrow views, living and dying 
one of Christ’s “little ones.” 

She had a delicate face, though skinny and freckled, with 
fine, reddish, light hair, which, she told me, she never curled 
but once, and that was when she “ backslid.” 

At one time, with much circumlocution, and many entrea- 
ties tha't I should not be offended, she besought me not to 
wear a ruffle on my neck, because, as she said, it gave “so 
much ’casion.” 

Yisiting once where she was present, we were, as usual, 
requested by the lady of the house to sing j Mary turned 
to her, saying, 

“ Would you like to hear a song, Marcy ?” 

She simpered, twisted about in her chair, blushed, and 
with a simple moral courage, worthy of more weighty cause, 
replied : 

“ If I should say I should, I should tell a lie.” 

Then there was our frequent visitor, a Mr. Tinney, whose 
love of the marvelous often constrained him to narrate most 
wonderful and incredible tales. 

When- any question was asked concerning the particulars, 
which might possibly lead to an exposure of the impossi- 
bility of truth of these “ entertainments,” his ready reply 
was, 

“ Well — that’s a little more’n I can tell ye ; I’ve asked 
Miss Tinney, and she don’t know.” 

“ Miss Tinney,” as he called her, was his patient, kind, 
and forbearing wife, who ever tried to screen his faults, 
even when, influenced by the liquor he Toved too well, he 


176 


HOME. 


loaded her with abuse. She was a most pious, conscien- 
tious woman, who would not for the world exaggerate, or 
deviate in the smallest degree from the exact truth, yet he 
loved to throw upon her the responsibility of his ready-made 
falsehoods. 

One family near us soon became our special friends. Their 
name was Campbell ; the father was of Scotch extraction ; 
was well descended, and born to wealth. 

He had served in the Revolutionary War, with the rank 
of lieutenant, and like many of the noble men of that 
period, sacrificed to his whole-souled patriotism, all personal 
and pecuniary considerations. 

Finding himself at the close of the war without resource, 
he plunged into the forests of Maine, resolved, with cheer- 
ful and strong courage, to win for his young family home 
and independence from the virgin soil of his country. 

He had six children, of whom Margaret, or Maggy, the 
eldest, was about my own age. 

She was truly a sweet girl, reminding me at first of my 
pleasant acquaintance in Bangor, Emilia Woleby ; but 
while not less gentle and amiable, she had far more energy 
and spirit. Her circumstances called for exertion, and 
she cheerfully gave it ; she spun, she wove, she tended the 
dairy, and she had the constant, and sometimes almost 
sole care of the younger children, for her mother’s health 
was feeble. 

Her step was lively, her face blooming with healthful 
exercise, and the beaming softness of her eye showed that 
its light was kindled at her heart. 


OUR NEIGHBORS. 


177 


I loved and esteemed this dear girl with my whole soul, 
and now, after nearly fifty years have passed away, as I 
recall the days when she shared my thoughts, and the happy 
hours we spent together, I still feel that she was one of 
earth’s loveliest and best. 


/ 


* 



178 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

COUNTRY VISITING. 

The first visit we made to Mr. Campbell’s convinced us 
that we had met a family quite different from the ordinary 
stamp found in pioneer settlements. 

I have lived in the most polished of our cities ; I have 
been familiar, too, with places so retired as to be on the 
very verge and outskirts of civilized society ; and every- 
where have I found some of Nature’s noblemen — noble in 
heart and soul— some person or family, cultivated in mind 
and refined in spirit. 

Mr. Campbell was a man of fine, noble bearing, with a 
prompt, decided turn, a quick bend of his stout, compact 
frame, indicative not only of energy, but of unbending 
integrity of purpose. His wife appeared to me a mild, 
lovely woman, whose retiring virtues must be sought out, to 
be known. 

We had been in the house but a short time, when Mr. 
Campbell came in to welcome us. After passing some com- 
pliments with Mary, he turned to me, and plied me with 
questions of all sorts. 

His manner, both frank and polite, put me at ease with 
him, while he, no doubt, was reading me like a book, sound- 
ing my depth, and taking the compass of my mind, though 
I was then far enough from having such a thought. 


COUNTRY VISITING. 


179 


“Is Mr. Wurth coming?” at length he inquired. 

I replied, that I did not know. 

“ Wife,” said he, “ I hope you did not forget Asa TV urth. 
He will hardly forgive you, if he is left out, where Miss 
Leland i s* concerned,” he added, with a curious, searching 
look, which quite confused me. Observing it, he turned 
and called to him his little son, playing on the floor. 

“ Come here, Archie I” said he ; but looking at him, 
“ ‘Ah, I was going to tell you to go and kiss the ladies ; but 
I see you must have your beard off first. Go and find your 
razor, boy.” 

Maggy vanished with her little brother, and soon ap- 
peared with him again, his chubby face as clean and fresh 
as a dewy rose. 

While we were there, two young men came from Bangor, 
on a journey further up the country, stopping at Mr. Camp- 
bell's for the night. 

They were brothers, by the name of Green ; one a law- 
yer, the other a land surveyor. I had met them in Bangor, 
and their presence on this occasion is brought to mind by 
the fact that, at their request, Mary and I sung a song 
upon the Sedition Act, which harmonizing with' the political 
views of the company, called forth a shout of applause. 

We were obliged to repeat it, and often sung it after- 
wards, though now I do not recall a word of it. 

This was the beginning of a succession of visits, for the 
doctor and his family were favorite as well as honored 
guests, and in many of them I found much enjoyment. 

We all went one evening, by invitation, to take tea at 


180 


HOME. 


the house of Mr. Spear, a very good, pious man, who occa- 
sionally preached or exhorted. 

His family lived in a small, low house, built in -the. form 
of a shed, having a roof but on one side, entirely unfinished; 
the chimney and hearth were of rough stones, with a huge 
fire-place ; the floor of split logs, with large cracks between, 
through which the cold air found easy admittance. 

There was but one room in the house ; this was lighted 
only by a window with four panes of glass, having a wide 
shelf beneath, on which lay a Bible, hymn-book, and 
almanac. The good man being a minister, something of a 
library was indispensable. 

In one corner of the room stood a turned up bedstead, 
apparently of home manufacture ; a few basket-bottomed 
chairs, and a common wooden table completed the furniture. 
There was, besides this room, a very small entry, one side 
of which the good woman used for a pantry, and a small 
dark place, entered by a rough door, swung on leathern 
hinges, where was some kind of a convenience to lay away 
children, after they went to sleep at night, of whom they 
had four, the eldest not yet five years old. 

It was a winter evening, and about dark, when we 
arrived at the house. A great fire was blazing in the old 
fireplace, roaring and cracking up the chimney. 

The oldest child, a girl, lay stretched upon the floor, fast 
asleep, with her feet towards the fire. 

Mr. Spear held the second child in his arms, rocking to 
and fro, from two legs to two legs of his rickety, creaking 
chair, invoking sleep to release him from his labors ; vainly 


COUNTRY VISITING. 


181 


enough, however, for the rebellious urchin continued to 
kick and scream most lustily, almost drowning our voices 
with his noise. 

A little girl of eleven years, from further back in the 
woods, who was staying with them to attend school, had 
the third ; while the mother, with the babe in her arms, 
assisted us to unrobe, laying our things high up on the 
posts of the bed, the only place in the room, in fact, where 
they could have been bestowed. 

In the course of half an hour the children were quieted 
to sleep, and one after another were carefully disposed of 
in the dark “ place” before mentioned. 

Now were commenced the preparations for supper : a 
fine spare-rib and a sheet of biscuit were baked before the 
fire, potatoes boiled in the tea-kettle, the tea meanwhile 
steeping on the coals an hour or more ; a great store and 
variety of pies, cakes, pickles, and preserves were brought 
forth; the little pine table drawn out and duly balanced 
on the uneven floor, and, about eight o’clock, a most excel- 
lent supper was served, according to the best knowledge 
and ability of our truly good and kind-hearted hostess. 

After the onerous business of the table was dispatched, 
Mrs. Spear took her knitting-work and sat down, as if the 
visit was just now begun ; and Mr. Spear, freed from the 
care of his noisy boy, also made himself very sociable. 

Their plain common sense, and real kindness of heart, 
covered, as with a mantle, the defects of their meagre 
accommodations. 


182 


HOME. 


No two people could have taken more pains to entertain 
their guests, to the utmost extent of their power, and we 

went home, feeling assured that they were among our 

% 

valuable neighbors. 


OUR LANDLORD. 


183 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

OUR LANDLORD. 


“ who can tell 

The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, 
That bound him to that vision?” 


It is time, perhaps, to say something of Mr. Asa Worth, 
the owner of our house and almost from our first residence 
an inmate in the family. 

He was a short, well-built man, rather good-looking than 
otherwise, of twenty-seven or eight years of age. Smart 
and enterprising, highly esteemed in the community, he 
possessed the fullest confidence of Mary and Dr. Emery, 
whose staunch friend he had ever been. 

When it soon became manifest to them, that he had a 
special interest in me, it naturally enough met with their 
approbation. 

I regarded him with great respect as an elder friend, and 
as nearly as I can recollect was just as frank and trusting 
in our ordinary intercourse in the family, as if he had been 
a brother. 

Even after Mary began to talk with me about him and 
his wishes, I did not take the subject in earnest, and 
scarcely gave a thought to it ; with a sort of girlish simpli- 
city, I neither understood nor appreciated his hints and 


184 


HOME. 


approaches, but laughed all off in a joke and light-hearted 
glee. 

When, after a time, he spoke more plainly, and sought 
opportunity to find me alone, I parried all questions and 
attacks in one foolish, light way or another, sometimes with 
a whirling dance round the room, by queer looks to make 
him laugh, or would make answer that it was a strange 
thing to talk about, that in eight or ten years I would 
begin to consider the matter. 

Sometimes he carried on the joke himself ; once he wrote 
an obligation for me to sign, purporting that I should 
marry him or forfeit ten thousand dollars, to which I gaily 
put my name. 

I think now, that my manner and treatment of him, with 
his knowledge of the feelings of Dr. Emery and Mary in 
his favor, deceived him as to my real sentiments, though I 
was most innocent of any such intentions. 

But I was like some other silly young girls, so perfectly 
heedless and inconsiderate that I scarcely took a sober view 
of anything. I wonder he did not get weary and out of 
patience with my levity and thoughtlessness ; but thus it 
went on during that winter, and indeed much longer. 

Mary, from time to time, tried to bring me to some seri- 
ous thought and decision, or rather, to a favorable decision, 
but I still declined giving the matter much attention. 

The time, however, passed happily along ; the few young 
people frequently met, in a familiar, social manner. 

There was Jerry Withington, with his heavy shock of red 
hair, his long, freckled face, and longer nose, but otherwise 


OUR LANDLORD. 


185 


not ill-looking, and passably agreeable, always very neat in 
his dress and appearance ; and Mr. Allan Ryler, rather 
short, with bushy, black hair, cropped close to his swarthy 
visage. He was intelligent, very well read, and a great 
talker. 

These two, together with our friend Asa Wurth, were 
the gay gallants of the small settlement. Their kindly prof- 
fered service was ever ready to assist females to meeting on 
stormy Sabbaths, as well as to collect the fair damsels from 
one and another of the log houses, and convey them fleetly 
over the deep snow, in sled or sleigh, to the cheerful gather- 
ing on the long winter evenings — the time of leisure and 
enjoyment. 

During the keen, sparkling, winter’s day, all was stirring 
life ; the huge, slow-paced oxen were driven forth to their 
daily work ; sometimes to make roads through the new- 
fallen snow, so deep as well-nigh to come up to their backs, 
but usually drawing the almost endless piles of logs, for fuel 
in the cold, unfinished houses. 

The voices of men urging forward the patient beasts, 
mingled with the jingling of bells, and the creaking of the 
crisp snow under the pressure of the enormous sleds, with 
their loads of fresh, fragrant wood. 

Oh ! those winter days in the heart of the old woods ! 
when, for many, many weeks, except for an occasional fall 
of snow, the sky was without a cloud — its dazzling sheen 
reflected by myriad sparkles of pure, snowy crystals, its 
blinding radiance tempered and beautifully relieved by the 


186 


HOME. 


surrounding forests of evergreen, resting against the clear, 
pearl}" sky. 

No bleak, driving wind could penetrate through the thick 
trees, but the very stillness of the air seemed to indicate 
intense cold. A faint, white mist arising from the earth, 
like an icy grasp almost arrested the deep hurried breath, 
while the blood moved swiftly in the veins, and the whole 
system, wrought to unwonted exhilaration, was stimulated 
to new life by the clear, cutting atmosphere of those Borean 
skies. The very rigors of the climate gave strength and 
hardihood to the frame, energy and enterprise to the mind. 

One bright, starlight evening, a jovial group were gathered 
at Mr. Campbell’s ; in a family near them were three grown 
daughters — Estella, Polly, and Ruth Mudge. These girls, 
with Maggy and myself, comprised all the young females of 
Clemence, though occasionally others came from neighbor- 
ing openings. 

Estella, or Telia Mudge, had attained the mature age of 
twenty-two, and in virtue of her superiority in this respect, 
felt herself entitled to take the lead among us. 

Besides, she was, in expressive Yankee language, termed 
a “ smart girl” — bustling, energetic, dauntless, and capable. 

Her eyes were black and piercing, her features large, and 
she had a snip-snap way of answering one which, perhaps, 
gave her some importance, but certainly was far from agree- 
able. 

Polly was pretty, but insipid and tiresome, and for ever 
fingering her light, dangling curls. 


OUR LANDLORD. 187 

Ruth, the youngest, was quite tolerable ; a lively, good- 
humored, ordinary girl. 

The evening was spent with the usual amount of trifling 
small talk, petty railleries, and romping games and plays. 
I was called upon to sing, as usual, in which Maggy could 
join, but the Mudges could not sing, and I could not help 
thinking that many times Miss Telia, especially, felt spiteful 
and envious towards me on account of my songs ; I was 
never quite at ease in her company, for an ill-natured remark 
or question, or some covert sarcasm, was sure to make me 
feel uncomfortable. 

Miss Telia had a grudge against me for another reason, 
as I afterwards knew; she had “set her cap ” for Mr. 
Wurth, as the most eligible match in the neighborhood, and 
she considered me in her way, no doubt. 

All this evening he was quite devoted to her, evidently 
to her gratification. She was disposed to be pleased with 
every one, and I was in a gay and happy mood, entering 
into all the amusements with much zest. 

When at last it was time to separate, we wended our way 
homeward with quick step, over the smooth trodden snow ; 
Mr. Wurth going with me, as was his common cus- 
tom. 

The transition from the warm room and murky fire-light 
into the clear, cold air, sobered my spirits. 

I gazed in silent awe at the solemn cope above, with its 
million lights of heaven. How bright they shone s out from 
their dark depths in that pure, keen air ! 

We had more than half reached home without exchang- 


188 


HOME. 


ing a word, when my companion suddenly began, not in the 
pleasantest mood : 

“It is a pity you haven’t more agreeable company — if 
Allan Ryler was here, you could talk, I dare say, as fast as 
you did with him this evening.” 

“ Certainly,” said I, “ I would try to entertain him.” 

“ I shall know better next time,” said he ; “I shall 
know enough to give place to more welcome attendance.” 

Not having much fancy for this kind of talk, I complained 
of the cold, saying I must try to shorten the road a little, 
and started into a fleet run, for I could run easily and 
swiftly. 

He kept stiffly on, at his own pace, and I had time, not 
only to reach home, but to brighten up the fire, and slip off 
to bed before he came. 

But my thoughts were anything but pleasant ; why he 
had been so crusty, I did not know ; or what I could have 
done to offend him. I recalled the occurrences of the even- 
ing, recollected that he had scarce spoken to me, but had 
been very sociable with Miss Telia ; we did not go together, 
for I went early in the afternoon, to have a time with 
Maggy by ourselves — was this the reason ? 

Or was it that Allan Ryler had conversed with me for 
some time about Boston, and Massachusetts, and the old 
times of the war ? 

I felt quite sure that Mr. Wurth, by his movements, pre- 
vented Allan from accompanying me home ; and of this I 
was the more convinced, as I remembered his allusion to. 
Mr. Ryler on our wa w . 


OUR LANDLORD. 


189 


After pondering a few moments, I resolved to take no 
notice of bis moody manner, treat him just as usual, and 
care nothing about it — and sq I fell asleep. 

But that night was not to be given to tranquil slumber. 
I was awakened by the sound of voices earnest and anxious, 
and presently Mary called to me, saying that a fire had 
broke out in some of the houses. 

The doctor and Mr. Wurth were just upon the point of 
starting to render assistance, telling us to remain quiet, and 
they would return with information as soon as they could. 

We waited and anxiously watched the lurid glare from 
the burning house, rising in the black night, till near morn- 
ing, when they came at last, bringing in their arms little 
Janet Campbell, a child of ten years ; she was wrapped in 
a blanket, and crying bitterly. 

Oh ! how were we shocked and afflicted when we knew 
£hat it was indeed Mr. Campbell’s house that was burned 
to ashes ! 

It must have caught soon after we left, for the flames had 
made considerable progress when they were discovered, 
about midnight. 

Mrs. Campbell was ill, and was the first one awakened 
by the suffocating smoke. m 

None were near to help, and the father, rousing his faith- 
ful Maggy, consigned to her care the rescue of the children, 
who asleep in the chamber, were most distant from the flames; 
himself secured the safety of his wife, and by the aid of 
neighbors soon arrived, she was conveyed to the nearest 
house. 


190 


HOME. 


# 

Then, with the greatest self-possession, he gave directions 
to the confused men around him; bending his utmost efforts 
to save from destruction the barn, where were his hay and 
his cattle, and which was in imminent danger of catching 
fire. 

Dear, noble Maggy, faithfully performed her part ; she 
first tried to wake her eldest brother, a lad of twelve ; 
repeatedly she roused him, pulling him up by main force, 
while the boy, in his heavy sleep, would rub his eyes and 
creep back to his bed. 

Meanwhile she carried little Archie and Stephen, next 
older, to an old cart that stood at some distance from the 
house. Janet and Nanny she partly dragged, partly car- 
ried, to the same place ; the oldest boy was at length suf- 
ficiently aroused to follow mechanically to their shelter. 

There they all crouched, shivering and crying, while the 
agitated and breathless girl, scarcely knowing in her bewil- 
derment whether all were safe or not, went back to the 
chamber and felt in each bed to assure herself ; then, with- 
out a thought of trying to save even their* clothes, half 
dressed, and chilled by the night air, she returned to the 
little company to watch over them. There she found her 
father. 

“ My children !” said he, “ thank God they are safe 1” 

Looking upon them weeping and half naked — the house 
now was one sheet of flame — his fortitude forsook him. 

“ Poor forlorn ones 1” said he, in a broken voice, “ with- 
out a shelter for your heads 1 I have no house for yon 
now 1” 


OUR LANDLORD. 


191 


It was not till then that the doctor and Mr. Wurth 
reached the scene of disaster. The children were taken in 
charge by the neighbors, finding an asylum in different 
families. 

Nothing was saved from the house : the flames were 

l 

rapid, and there were not means at hand, nor sufficient aid, ] 
to subdue them ; yet there was time to have saved many ; 
valuable articles, had all present been calm and self-pos-' 
sessed. 

But the confusion and fright of many only impeded the 
movements of the few who knew better how to act in such 
an emergency. One man entered Mrs. Campbell's sleeping 
t room, after she was removed from it, with intent to save 
J something ; and looking round bewildered, he espied her 
\ cap hanging upon the carved top of the looking-glass. So, 
i taking it carefully down, went and deposited it at a safe dis- 
j tance, instead of seizing, as he might have done, upon the 
/ glass itself, bedding, wearing apparel, or the many useful 
J and necessary articles around ; but the precious moment 
was lost — all became the prey of the devouring flames. 

Mr. Campbell, whose whole life had been a struggle 
with difficulties, and who had barely attained to a tolerable 
freedom from the rude grasp of poverty, now saw his family 
houseless, and destitute of even a change of clothing. 

His was not a nature, however, to yield to discourage- 
ment and supineness, but was rather of that firm, elastic 
metle, that the harder it was buffeted the more it would 
rebound. 

“ God will provide a way for us,” said he, with unwaver- 


192 


HOME. 


ing trust ; and, composed and cheerful, he began at once 
the work of repair and renovation. 

And now were shown some of the noblest, loveliest traits 
of fair humanity, which, however overborne by selfishness, in 
the sordid sluggishness and narrow range of ordinary life, 
never fails to assert its high empire in the breast, when 
roused to action by the power of sweet-stirring sympathy 
filling the heart with generous emotions. Our little neigh- 
borhood was busy, as with one heart and soul, in retrieving 
their losses : garments, clothing of all kinds, many things 
which could ill be spared, were freely, gladly offered, and 
fingers were nimbly plied to fit the gifts to the wants of the 
sufferers. • 

The men, too, with their stalwart teams, at once set 
about the labor of felling trees, and drawing the logs for 
building, and with so much vigor did they work, that in a 
few weeks a house was ready for them. Small, indeed, it 1 
was, and with but one finished room, yet a welcome shelter. I 
Their friends, for the distance of twenty miles around, 
brought offerings of bedding, furniture, and provisions; 
while from Bangor came generous donations in various 
forms, till comfort again smiled in their dwelling, and their 
grateful hearts felt almost oppressed with such generous 
kindness. 




SPJRING TIME. 


193 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

SPRING-TIME. 

The winter passed on : spring came with tardy, unwil- 
ling step, and seemed to linger long on the threshold. 

If a bright March sun, in its genial warmth, settled the 
level of the snow, and made glistening pearls drop from 
roofs and windows, the succeeding day, perchance, brought 
fitful winds and lowering clouds to usher in a storm of 
driving snow or sleet. 

Not a speck of ground was to be seen for many changeful 
weeks. And then, instead of soft showers and warm sun- 
shine, “ the uncertain glory of an April day,” light falling 
snow, mud, and rain seemed striving for empire on the 
bare, brown earth. But the tall cedars waved their green 
tops to the jolly, careless wind, and the sun shone out upon 
the many-fleececi, over-floating clouds, with just as much 
fervency of good-will as though their bright visages looked 
down upon scenes which could return their glances of beauty 
and joy. 

When May-day came, a few of us, emulating the delights 
of more Hesperian climes, were intending to search the 
fields and woods for early blossoms, peeping from their cold 
beds of moss ; but, during the night previous, a few inches 
of snow noiselessly fell, spreading a pale sheet over the open 

9 


194 : 


HOME. 


land, and lodging its soft burden upon millions of pendent 
boughs. 

The mild morning sun looked out placidly through a veil 
of mist, as if ‘conscious of his power to dissolve each tiny, 
feathery flake into grateful moisture for the opening buds. 

Our promised excursion was changed to a May party at 
our house, of “the girls;” that is, my friend Maggy, and 
the three Mudges, with good Mary Tibbs, who, though 
much older, was a favorite with me, for her simplicity and 
kind-heartedness. 

Youth, in its freshness and fullness, has little need to 
borrow its happiness from pomp and luxury : we sung, we 
twined our wreaths of evergreen, we read a new book 
together, as light-hearted in our homely room, as if wander- 
ing in orange groves under Italy’s fair sky. 

No small amusement, we derived, too, from watching a 
party of children, who, not to be baffled of their sport, went 
off “a Maying,” through the snow and mud, “rollicking 
and frolicking,” their joyous spirits and overflowing happi- 
ness condensed into musical little pellets of merriment, 
rebounding and ringing as they lavishly scattered them 
round. 

Towards noon we saw them return, draggled and weary, 
yet protesting they had had rare sport ; displaying, as their 
reward, a few handfuls of checkerberries. 

At evening I stood with Mary, in the open door, watch- 
ing the retreating forms of my companions, as they warily 
picked their way over the yielding mud. 

The sun had just set in glory, the air was mild and balmy, 


SritING TIME. 


195 


and through the thick net-work of leafless branches glimpses 
of the bright sky gleamed, as if beckoning to some fair, 
peaceful region, far beyond. 

Mary was softly singing, as she awaited the return of the 
doctor, who had been gone all day. He was soon seen 
coming, on horseback, at a slow pace, to accommodate the 
tardy progress of a pedestrian at his side. 

A few moments’ scrutiny, sufficed to show me that the 
stranger was Allan Ryler, who, being now employed at 
some mills, four or five miles distant, was spending that 
day on a visit to Clemence; 

It instantly flashed into my mind that his name had been 
mentioned at dinner by Mr. Wurth, with an allusion that 
plainly pointed to me as the object of his coming. 

Thinking only how to escape the encounter, I gently slid 
my arm away from Mary, and, going up stairs, sat down, 
lhalf trembling, yet resolved not to be seen. 

Snatches of the conversation soon came to my ears 
through the open door, and after a time my name was 
called ; but, quickly undressing, I retreated to my little cot. 

I heard Mary say she thought I would soon come, and 
wondered where I could be. Presently she came to seek 
me, and was quite displeased, though she could not help 
laughing, to find me snugly ensconced in bed. 

She endeavored to persuade me to go down, urging the 
incivility, and even rudeness, of such treatment, since he 
had specially inquired for me. 

But I persisted, and she reluctantly reported me as hav- 
ing retired. 


196 


HOME. 


Allan Ryler no sooner heard this, than he started up, 
walked with rapid strides across the room, and said, in his 
sharp, quick manner, “What does that mean?” Then 
taking his hat, he abruptly bade them good evening. 

I was blamed, rallied, and bantered-, without mercy, for 
my conduct, which was indeed foolish enough. Mr. Wurth, 
however, was extremely pleased, chuckling and delighting 
himself on every allusion, till I felt really uncomfortable 
about it. 


MY SCHOOL. 


197 


V 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MY SCHOOL. 

“ There’s music in tfte forest leaves, 
When summer winds are there.” 


Early in summer, Clemence was visited by a missionary, 
who was on a tour of exploration to the new settlements, 
with some means contributed by the benevolent, to be 
bestowed in aid of public worship and schools in the more 
l destitute places. 

> The small “opening,” before mentioned, was a little 
r neighborhood of but five families, and having never had 
any schools for their children, they received five dollars from 
^ the missionary, who applied to me to teach for them. 

I consented, and they, encouraged to greater efforts, 
made up a small additional sum. 

The older children sometimes attended school at Cle- 
mence, and had done so the past winter, for Dr. Emery had 
taught the young people, assisted by Mary, in his absence 
on professional duty. 

I was not a stranger to the dwellers at Green Briar, and 
I entered upon my new vocation very cheerfully, “ boarding 
round ” in all the families, all in log-houses ; in some the 
bare ground was the floor ; in some places I ate potatoes 
boiled in a birch bark sap trough, and bread baked in an 


198 


HOME. 


open iron kettle over the fire, which was also the sole utensil 
for frying meat, heating water for tea, and various other 
purposes. 

In one place the wash-stand was a barrel covered with 
two pieces of board not very closely matched, and when one 
day at table a dish of salt was wanted, I noticed that the 
supply was obtained from this barrel. 

Still, I was as happy in my little shed of a school-house 
as the birds that sang so merrily around me, and I remem- 
ber to this day the names and faces of my few scholars. 

Mr. Paul’s was the chief family; they were of Scotch 
extraction, and friends of the Campbells. 

Mrs. Paul was a pious, excellent woman. She had been 
often at our house. Her young people, too, I frequently 
saw, as they all attended meeting in Clemence. The oldest 
daughter was a buxom lass of twenty ; the next, about my 
own age. There were two sons, of seventeen and eighteen ; 
and five smaller ones, who were among my pupils. 

Another family lived quite near, in a mere hut of one 
room, but enjoying the distinction of having attached to it 
the only barn in the neighborhood. 

In the rear of this barn, itself furnishing one side, was 
the frail tenement of a school-house, composed of a few 
posts, boards, and beams, laid together, resting against the 
barn for support. 

The floor and benches were of rough boards, and in the 
side opposite the rude door an aperture was cut for a 

window. 

A very small space around was cleared of the bushes 


MY SCHOOL. 


199 


and trees, and closed in by woods, whose deep shadow 
almost reached the open door, as each morning found me, 
with light step, tracing the dewy path to the daily charge- 
of my shy little flock, while the melody of countless birds 
ceased not the livelong day. 

How peaceful and quiet were those long summer days 
deepening into high noon, and fading in the ruddy west ! 

The marvelous loveliness of June is lovely indeed in the 
pure temperature of that northern latitude, where vegeta- 
tion is so rapid that its growth can almost be discerned 
from hour to hour. 

The first tender freshness of Nature’s green robe is 
everywhere enchanting in its sweet budding' luxuriance, its 
balmy odors, and the subtle harmonies of a thousand 
blended influences. 

Then, too, the long, soft twilight — for there scarcely four 
out of the twenty-four hours are not tinged with some faint 
gleams of day — like the summer nights in Norway, where 
the delicious half hour after sunset, which seems like the 
smile of earth and sky, is prolonged throughout the whole 
night. 

Those twilight evenings — the sweet “gloaming” of the 
Scotch — devoted to recreation and rest ! their retrospect is 
bright, yet mingled with regrets. 

To my pleasure-loving youth, nothing came amiss ; and 
when the young Pauls and some others besought me to 
teach them to dance, I agreed to their plan — nothing loth. 

Dancing had been a very common amusement with the 
young people of Wayland, the comparatively few pious 


■"N: 


200 


HOME. 


parents permitting it in their children : even the sons and 
daughters of Mr. Rice, our minister, partook with us in all 
our gaiety. 

Perhaps some will recollect the time when there seemed 
to prevail, in New England, a general conformity to the 
world ; even Christians of undoubted piety, not heeding the 
command, “ Come ye out from among them, and be ye 
separate.” 

In consequence, there was much lack of earnest, active 
piety ; the distinctive doctrines of religion were scarcely 
recognized, either in profession or practice. 

It was usual then, upon marriage, or when somewhat past 
the hey-day of youth, to join the church, as a decent and 
proper show of respect for religion, with little said regard- 
ing the momentous question whether the soul had indeed 
“ passed from dea*th into life.” 

I had always danced in Way land, and saw no harm in 
doing so in Green Briar. There was not convenient space 
in the house, so the lads brought some boards, used for 
threshing, and made a floor upon the green grass. There, 
evening after evening, in the open air, under the sunset sky, 
we plied our nimble feet in this animating pastime, till the 
stars twinkled, while the “ old folks ” looked out slily upon 
our sport from some obscure corner. 

I well knew, though I did not heed it then, that good 
Mrs. Paul was grieved in her heart because of our dancing'; 
her children overruled her objections, but her conscience 
was troubled that the inmates of her family should engage 
in this vain amusement. Her scruples should have been 


MY SCHOOL. 


201 


respected by me, and I have ever since been pained by the 
remembrance of this portion of my giddy, thoughtless youth. 

The period of childhood and youth is generally deemed 
the most favored and happy portion of man’s life, and many 
a fond sigh of regret is cast back upon those early years. 

Childhood is, indeed, most lovely and gladsome, the bright 
impersonation of innocence and love. 

The golden morn of youth is, oh, how precious ! as the 
germ and type of all after life. But childhood, with its 
smiles and tears, who would recall ? Its sunny gaiety is 
like the frisking of lambs on the lea, or the gambols of the 
playful kitten — the soul is not there. 

And youth, free-hearted, joyous youth — its memory is, 
\ indeed, like the glad murmur of the running brook, like the 
I gushing melody of the birds in spring — but is happiness 
j found there ? 

/ That is a fountain still and deep, welling up from the in- 
most heart, and comes only with the matured intellect, with 
the full flow of the tried soul, conscious of its strength — 
nay, it is only truly attained when the chastened spirit finds 
\ its infinite treasure in its Almighty Creator. 

The memories of youth are, with most, shaded by the sor- 
rowful recollection of follies committed, golden opportunities 
wasted, willful errors, ignorance, and waywardness. 

So true it is, that memory has both its lights and its 
shadows, and with the bright train of the one comes ever, 
alas ! the sad procession of the other I 


9 * 


202 


HOME. 







CHAPTER XXXIV. 

; “THE HUE OF DEATH IS CAST O’ER EVERYTHING.” 

Sad scenes awaited us in the succeeding autumn. 

The summer had been extremely warm, with great 
drought, and a malignant fever prevailed. 

Dr. Emery was hurried from patient to patient, often to 
a distance of several miles, riding all day and all night, 
returning home for a hasty meal, or to snatch a few minutes* 
repose. 

In one case he went twenty miles, over wretched roads, 
being gone from home nearly a week. 

At length, a family of six were all sick at the same time, 
having the fever in different stages. 

The disease was deemed contagious, and a great panic 
prevailed, mastering for the time all impulses of humanity in 
the one instinct of self-preservation. 

Scarce any one could be found willing to watch by night, 
or even attend upon the sick by day, and Dr. Emery, faith- 
ful to his charge, was both nurse and doctor to his patients. 
He stayed with them day after day, till, by the blessing of 
God on his skill and unceasing exertions, all were convales- 
cent ; then, utterly overcome, he was himself prostrated 
by the fever. 

Mary was alarmed, and sent at once to TBangor for medi- 


THE HUE OF DEATH IS CAST OYER EVERYTHING. 203 

cal aid ; two physicians, came, but, alas ! their utmost skill 
could not avail ; his exhausted frame was the easy prey of 
disease. He rapidly sunk under it, and his life was the 
price of his generous devotion to others. 

He died at the post of duty, a brave, unflinching soldier ! 

My poor sister ! She made no loud demonstrations of 
her sorrow ; she meekly bowed her head to the stroke, and 
in the secret silence of her soul sought consolation at a Fa- 
ther’s hand. He who had smitten, He alone could heal. 

Our neighbors were struck with double terror to see their 
physician and helper fall before the Destroyer, and even at 
the funeral, scarcely were there enough collected to bear his 
] beloved remains to their last resting-place. 

) But we heeded little then that we were left almost alone 
j in our affliction ; the one great grief swallowed all smaller 
j ones. When the panic of fear had subsided, proofs were 
not wanting of the most tender and deep feeling for our be- 
reavement. Many tears were shed with us, and for us — 
tears of sorrow for the dead — tears of affectionate sympathy 
with the living. 

Mr. Campbell, as soon as he was able, for he, too, had 
been one of the sick, acted the part of a true friend towards 
us. Mr. Wurth at once took upon himself the care of the 
doctor’s business, all his out-standing accounts, bills, and' 
liabilities ; managing everything in a most faithful and able 
manner. 

Our friends at Bangor sent letters of condolence and kind 
messages of sympathy. I had kept up occasional correspon- 
dence with my two friends, Eleanor Bolles and Emilia 


204 


HOME. 


Woleby, and now cordial invitations came from both fami- 
lies for Mary and myself to spend as much time with them 
as suited our convenience, with the assurance that we should 
be most welcome to pass the ensuing winter at Bangor. 

But our thoughts turned to our own home, far away, 
and the dear ones there. 

Our father urged our immediate return “to those,” he 
said, “ who shared all our griefs, and who would strive, by 
the cares of love, to lighten them.” 

Mary's stricken heart yearned for her childhood's home, 
and its comforting endearments, but difficulties were in her 
way. It was now too late for a passage by water, and to 
return by land was a journey, at best, long and expensive, 
and that, from the state of the roads, could only be per- 
formed in winter by sleighing. There was then no stage 
east from Portland, and the expense of hiring private con- 
veyance, with proper attendance, was not to be thought of. 

Dr. Emery had possessed nothing but a thorough know- 
ledge of his profession ; free-hearted and generous in his 
feelings, he often refrained from making charges against 
those who were struggling along for the mere necessaries of 
life, as was the case with many in that region. 

Yet his practice was so extensive, that, had his dues been 
promptly paid, there would have been ample provision for 
our present wants. The past season had been an unfavora- 
ble one ; many were straitened still more by sickness ; so 
that some who had kind hearts and just intentions failed 
altogether in meeting their engagements. Besides, all had 
been in the practice of paying their doctor’s fees in produce 


THE HUE OF DEATH 18 CAST OVER EVERYTHING. 205 

from their farms, but now it was needful that the arrears 
should be paid in money. Where all are poor and strug- 
gling together, the selfish instincts are constantly excited, 
and long-continued poverty is apt to blunt the edge of the 
nobler feelings .of humanity — the just, the generous, the 
humane. 







206 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

A WAY PROVIDED. 

It was no «tmall addition to Mary’s troubles, that her 
situation was so perplexing, it being utterly impossible to 
collect a sum sufficient to defray the expenses of our return 
home. 

But a kind Providence sent relief, when least expected. 
Mr. Campbell came one day to inform us that he intended 
going in his own sleigh to New Hampshire, to visit his 
brother, and that he could carry one of us as far as that on 
our way home ; at the same time inviting the other to 
remain at his house till the following spring. 

He advised Mary to stay, alleging that her affairs might 
then be better arranged. Dr. Emery had purchased some 
land, just before his death, and he thought that might be 
sold the ensuing spring, and her other bills collected. 

I saw the change that passed over Mary’s face, at this 
proposal ; I saw the struggle in her mind, and felt that she 
needed the ministrations of home— the kind, cheering voices 
of kindred — to soothe her wounded spirit. 

I resolved, at once, to be the one to stay 5 and I urged 
so many cogent reasons in favor of it, that so it was 
decided. 

With the first deep fall of snow Mary went, taking with 


A WAY PROVIDED. 


207 


her the very few things that could be packed into the 
sleigh. Her journey was favorable, and immediately after 
her arrival at home, a letter was sent me from them all, full 
of love, counsel, and cheering encouragement. 

Captain Stephens, of Bangor, agreed to take charge of 
the remainder of our effects, and ship them to Boston. 
Maggy aided me in preparing the various articles for trans- 
portation by sleighing to Bangor. 

It was the first time I had been in the house since Mary 
left it, for it seemed so lonely, I could not bear to enter it. 

The day was dreary ; the wind came in gusts against the 
bare windows ; snow fell at intervals from the sullen clouds; 
a sense of desolation came over me, and it required all my 
self-command to keep back the tears. 

Mr. Wurth was there too, assisting us in removing and 
arranging. I was oppressed with his kindness, and longed 
to speak of it, but could not trust myself to talk, lest the 
flood-gate of tears should be opened. I almost wished I 
could find it in my heart to repay him in the way he desired. 

At length all was packed, except Mary’s bureau, which, 
it being inconvenient to remove, I requested Mr. Wurth to 
keep for himself. He was at first unwilling, and said sadly, 
as we were standing together, “ I do not want it ; I shall 
have no use for it,” then sinking his voice lower, “If you 
would but take possession here, accept the house and its 
owner ; it is all I would ask in this world I” 

I felt, in the depths of my heart, that I was not worthy 
of such regard from him. I told him so, amid raining tears ; 
called myself foolish and ungrateful, and spoke with earnest 


208 


HOME. 


sincerity of Maggy’s loveliness and worth of character. I 
know not why, but I had a feeling that she would not refuse 
him, would he but appreciate her many excellences, and 
seek her favor. He did not reply. We soon separated, and 
I only saw him once afterwards. But my instincts were 
not at fault ; Maggy eventually became his wife. 


♦ 


RETURN TO BANGOR. 


209 


CHAPTER XXX YI. 

RETURN TO BANGOR. 

About mid-winter, I accepted the invitation of my Bangor 
friends, though with some reluctance, for I longed for seclu- 
sion, and shrunk from mixing in company. 

At Mr. Bolles’s, I knew I should be in the midst of 
gaieties and excitement, and I had no longer any heart for 
such scenes. The various sad experiences of the last few 
months — my loneliness — all wrought a total change in me. 

Dr. Emery’s death was an ever-present reality to my 
mind. Hfe was gone — he hdxl made the fearful plunge — but 
i whither? 

This awful glimpse into the unseen world greatly affected 
| my spirits ; all else seemed vague, unreal, and of no import- 
ance. The Campbells thought me low spirited, and advised 
m£ going to Bangor, that I might have change of scene, 
and some amusement. 

Instead of that, most happy would it have been, if my 
softened feelings and salutary seriousness had been cher- 
ished by fitting influences, and that the tide of worldly 
pleasure and vanity might then have been rolled back. 

I was drawn into the giddy round, at first reluctantly, in 
compliance with custom, and to avoid remark, often with a 
conscience ill at ease ; but company, and flattering atten- 
tions, had their influence. 


210 


HOME. 


I found that the past year had made great changes in 
this thriving place ; the number of dwellings was more 
than doubled, new stores were added, streets opened, and 
there was great increase of business, as well as of fashion 
and gaiety. 

I was soon noticed as a pretty dancer, and was quite 
sought after at all the parties. On one occasion, at a gay 
gathering, one of the toasts given was, “ To the lass of 
Clemence.” How confused I was ! 1 scarcely knew where 

I was or what to do ; and my head was actually dizzy as I 
caught the word passed from mouth to mouth. 

It must have been by mere accident or caprice that I 
received so much attention at this time ; there was nothing 
in me to call it forth ; there must have been much which 
needed to be excused, on the ground of my youth, timidity, 
and inexperience. My appointments in dress, too, though I 
thought little about it then, must have been meagre enough, 
for my means were literally nothing. 

I remember once, when returning late from some walk or 
visit, one of my shoes was lost by an inadvertent step ; *tbe 
next morning a packet of shoes was brought me that I 
might choose from them a good fit ; and I took them, sim- 
ply, without any of the scruples of delicacy I might have 
felt a few years later, in such a case. JN"o doubt I needed 
them, for I had little or no money ; indeed, I scarcely recol- 
lect having any during this period. 

Among the boarders at Mr. Bolles’s was an English sea- 
captain — Captain Hamlet. 

His vessel had been accidentally frozen in. late in the pre- 


RETURN TO BANGOR. 


211 


ceding fall, and he, consequently, spent the winter in Ban- 
gor, amusing himself as best he could. He was somewhat 
past his youth, tall, ra'ther haughty in his bearing, but per- 
fectly well-bred, very fond of* gay scenes, and quite chival- 
rous in his gallantry and polite attentions to ladies. 

I saw little of him except in company, for, being quite at 
home at Mr. Bolles’, I was in any part of the house with 
Eleanor, seldom going to the public table with the numerous 
boarders. 

After a time he began to distinguish me with his notice, 
and finally, when he chanced to encounter me alone — for 
Eleanor and I were seldom apart — he asked me if I would 
be his wife, and go out to Liverpool with him. 

“I want to show my mother what America can produce,” 
said he, protesting, as I hurriedly made my escape, that 
his “ intentions were honorable ” 

I do not recollect that I made any reply of any sort ; I 
only remember feeling very much frightened and very 
foolish. 

However, in this instance at least, my “ gaucherie” served 
me in as good turn as the most approved rules for behavior 
in such cases. I kept out of his way, never even speaking 
with him again, though I had a high opinion of him as an 
accomplished gentleman, and was flattered by his admira- 
tion. 

It was well for me that my fancy was not caught, for 
some after developments of his character proved that neither 
his honor nor his principles would have been a safeguard for 
my inexperience. He made high pretensions, however ; I saw 


212 


HOME. 


him once, in the midst of a large party, suddenly march 
across the room, with a flushed face, and demand the import 
of a whisper between two young men, who thus violated the 
rules of good breeding by some trivial remark. 

A part of my time was spent at Mr. Woleby's ; there I 
was much more retired, and, as' I now know, in a situation 
much more proper and safe for an unprotected young girl. 
But Eleanor Bolles was quite pertinacious in exacting my 
stay with her ; and in her father's open house I felt more at 
home, less as a guest receiving hospitality from comparative 
strangers. 

My heart beats with gratitude in recollecting the gene- 
rous, motherly kindness of Mrs. Woleby to a poor stranger. 

Many times have I looked back with astonishment, as 
well as with deep, thankful reverence, that my Heavenly 
Father so provided for my need, and put it into the heart of 
so many to show me kindness. 

Mrs. Woleby ever welcomed me to her house ; she often 
called me daughter, and it was with the feelings of a Chris- 
tian mother that she exercised a guardian care over me. 

Her gentle Emilia was a favorite with all. 

Unlike some who are caressed and admired abroad, and 
called sweet, obliging girls, but who are at home selfish, 
indolent, and ill-humored, her good and lovely character 
shone brightest there. She was kindly attentive to her pa- 
rents, and always ready to minister to another's happiness, 
not with professions and promises, whose fulfillment was 
ever in the future, “ as the manner of some is." 

There was one boarder at Mr. Woleby's ; a young law- 


RETURN TO BANGOR. 


213 


yer, who chose a more retired, or, perhaps, a more exclusive 
residence than at Mr. Bolles’s, the usual resort of the young 
men of the place. This young man, Otis Gibbs, was called 
peculiar ; he was so, in his personal appearance at least, 
being shorter than most women, with a very large, white 
face, his shoulders broad and high, while his lower limbs 
were so slender that it apparently required an effort to 
maintain the centre of gravity. 

He was extremely nervous and excitable, and often have 
I seen him, at a sudden meeting or at an unexpected occur- 
rence, reel and totter from side to side, with difficulty pre- 
serving his equilibrium. 

Yet he was a young man of superior mind and excellent 
character, albeit deformed by various littlenesses, set notions, 
and weak points of temper. 

He aspired to Emilia’s favor, and would have won it, per- 
haps, could he have condescended to mingle more freely 
with others, and to unbend from his reserve and inflexi- 
bility. 

At least, my reflections convinced me that his true worth 
and fine qualities, if but unfolded in fair light to the gentle, 
considerate girl, would have eclipsed in her mind any lack 
of mere external attractions. Certain I am that we both 
did him great injustice ; I, especially, made him the subject 
of many a jest. 

He said of me, that “ he should like me well enough, if I 
was not always either laughing or singing ” — over which 
remark we had much girlish merriment. 

Could he have seen me a few years later, he would pro- 


2U 


HOME. 


bably have formed a very different estimate of my charac- 
ter. 

My friend Emilia some years after this married a gallant 
sea-captain, and after a few brief years of domestic happi- 
ness, was successively bereft of her husband and four chil- 
dren. 

It was just before the death of the fourth, a lovely and 
accomplished girl of eighteen, |jfeat we met again, for the 
first time since these scenes of our youth just narrated. It 
was after a lapse of thirty years — we had each been tried 
and shaken by deep affliction — we had each fixed our hopes 
and affections beyond this world. 

We spent together one precious day — a d^y of tearful 
reminiscence — of mutual experience — gratefully recognizing 
the hand of our Heavenly Father in all the dealings of His 
providence. 

“For who the backward path hath scanned, 

But blessed his Father’s guiding hand.” 


Emilia has long since passed to her home in the skies. 

Her mother, the last remnant of the once flourishing 
family, died a short time since, full of years and honors, 
having lived to- see the rude settlement around her become 
a large, thriving, and beautiful city. 

The homestead, though changed, and occupied by stran- 
gers, still stands upon its site, overlooking the ^enduskeag, 
now hidden from view, not as of yore by thick trees, but by 
long blocks of lofty dwellings, stores, bridges, wharves— all 
around instinct with the life and stir of business. 


NEW FRIENDS. 


24.5 


CHAPTER XXXYII. 

NEW FRIENDS. 

j 

It was not long before the breaking up of the ice in the 
Penobscot, that several of us took an excursion up the river 
some six or seven miles, to visit at a Colonel Butler’s. 

The ride was not without danger, for though the trodden 
track on the ice was still safe, the least deviation from it 
might lead into thin places of greater or less extent, and 
horses and riders be precipitated at once into deep water. 

We were to return by moonlight; but just as night came 
on, snow began to fall, soon obscuring the path so as to 
have required the utmost caution to keep in the track, 
even by daylight, and a return by night was not to be 
thought of. 

To accommodate ten or eleven guests, called for strenuous 
exertions on the part of our hospitable host aud hostess. 
The house was a common-sized Cottage. There was a 
square entry in front, with a room on either side, one of 
them quite narrow, and containing the “ spare bed.” This, 
with two small bedrooms and a garret, comprised all the 
sleeping apartments. 

The family consisted of father and mother, a hired man, 
three grown-up daughters, and a group of younger children. 

How were the eleven guests to be provided for ? 

No difficulty at all 1 The utmost hilarity and good 


210 


HOME. 


humor reigned among all parties, and the most thorough 
pleasure was taken in pairing off the company, making 
numerous partitions, with the aid of forks and nails, and 
plenty of coverlets and blankets ; the large common room 
being thus divided into four curtained compartments. 

The beds were then shifted and shaken, separated and 
multiplied to the best possible advantage ; all lending a, 
helping hand, amid much mirth, and the cracking of jokes, 
greatly enhancing the enjoyment of both’ visitors and hosts. 

But this was not all the pleasure, as respects myself, for 
Colonel Butler taking occasion to inquire about my friends 
and home, I was both surprised and delighted to find 
that he had been an old neighbor and friend of my own 
mother. 

He, on his part, was equally well pleased to see the child, 
as he said, of his fair schoolmate, Bessy Lyle, and he plied 
me with questions about my uncles and aunts, of whom for 
many years he had lost all knowledge. 

“ The last time I saw your mother,” said he, “ she was 
just about your age ; you resemble her some, but she was 
handsomer than you are. Oh,” added he, smiling, “you 
look well enough. I dare say you are vain of your good 
looks now ; but Anna and Bessy Lyle were two of the finest 
girls on Roxbury ' street.” 

“ Ah I” said he, “ it was a sad time for that family when 
the father died ; your grandfather, I mean. Both parents 
were taken within a few months, and in the prime of life, 
too, for he was not more than forty-five years old ; not 
older than I am now. He died in his full strength — a 


NEW FllIENDS. 


217 


portly, handsome man— and he looked, in his coffiu, just as 
if he had fallen asleep in the full flush of health.” 

Colonel Butler informed me of many particulars respect- 
ing my grandparents and their children ; made minute 
inquiries concerning the present situation of each, and of my 
own brothers and sisters, as well as the time and circum- 
stances of my mother’s death. 

He regretted much that he had not known Mary and 
Hr. Emery ; the news of the sudden death of the doctor 
had reached him, “ but I little thought,” said he, “ that his 
wife was the daughter of my old friend Bessy Lyle.” 

He interested himself in my welfare, and warmly invited 
me to make his house my home, until I returned to my 
friends in Massachusetts. 

I gladly accepted his proffered kindness. He came for 
me, in a few days, and I was quietly established in his 
pleasant but lonely cottage home, close upon the bank of 
the dark and rapid Penobscot. 

Here I assisted the daughters occasionally in their house- 
hold employments, and enjoyed many an hour with them in 
paddling up or down the river, in a little open boat or 
canoe, which I learned to manage with ease. 

But their house was overshadowed with a great sorrow, 
during my stay there. That insidious destroyer of the 
young and lovely, Consumption, laid his inexorable g.rasp 
upon the second and fairest of the daughters ; he placed his 
mark upon her blooming cheek, and at his icy touch the 
wan girl faded away like an April snow. 

The family were long blind to the progress of disease, 
10 


218 


HOME. 


unwilling to admit the possibility of danger, and even to the 
last they never mentioned death in her presence, or inti- 
mated their fears on her account. They were not religious 
people — seemed never to think of God, or the eternal 
world. 

I was not utterly thoughtless ; the voice of conscience 
was not altogether silent within me. I knew that I had no 
interest in the Saviour’s pardoning mercy. I had sought 
none, nor cared to seek reconciliation with God. I was 
deferring the matter 

How wonderful the rich mercy of my Heavenly Father, 
that I was not left to my own chosen way ! But though 
so regardless of my own best good, I was deeply anxious 
that poor Celia should realize her danger, and seek the 
salvation of her soul, ere it should be too late. 

My lips were sealed ; I could not -bring myself to speak 
upon the subject, especially before the family; yet, when- 
ever I was left alone with her, I would have my Bible with 
me in the room, to read in, if she desired it, till, by a sort 
of tacit consent, that became the only reading when she 
was left in my charge. 

She would sit reclining on the bed, propped up by 
pillows, her bright, glassy eyes fixed on mine, as I read to 
her portions that I selected ; answering her questions, and 
explaining the meaning in a manner surprising to myself, 
and as I could not ha ve done, had I not, from early child- 
hood, heard the Bible read, and been instructed in its 
truths, by my father. 

The first day of May was the Sabbath. I do not recol- 


NEW FKIENDS. 


219 


lect how it happened, but I was alone with her most of the 
day. I read to her several of the last chapters of the 
Book of Revelation — a singular selection for one so ignorant 
as myself ; yet I was powerfully impressed by it — and as 
we conversed earnestly upon the mysterious import of that 
sublime portion of Holy Writ, we were both in tears. 

At length she said, in a subdued tone, “ You have done 
me a great deal of good since you have been here.” 

I could not speak ; and as some of the family now came 
into the room, I walked out by myself, desiring to be alone. 
I passed along the river’s bank, through a clump of cedar 
trees and bushes, where all seemed a lonely wild — for there 
was neither house nor living object in sight — indulging the 
mood of my feelings ; sad, yet soothed. 

The wood-thrush whistled ; the frogs croaked ; the open 
land had a drab and cadaverous complexion ; the mottled 
hue of the wooded wilderness around me, and across the 
river the dark tops of the firs, tinged with the yellow-green 
of the beech and the juniper’s red-barked boughs ; the pop- 
lars’ white trunks and spangled limbs spotting the whole 
with-a faint glare ; while the jetty black, glittering stream, 
like a huge serpent, crawled along at the foot of the whole. 
All this, seen through thin clouds of mist as a veil, had a 
softened, indescribable effect. My thoughts reverted to 
Dr. Emery and his lonely grave — to myself, away from my 
home, and dependent on the hospitality of strangers — the®, 
to poor Celia, just my own age, sinking into an early grave! 
for I knew she could not live, though she had for a day or 
two seemed better, and quite free from pain. 


220 


HOME. 


How strange appeared now my former thoughtlessness 
and light-hearted gaiety 1 how mad and foolish to live on, 
heedless of death and the dread realities of another world 1 

Resolutions were formed, and thoughts and feelings 
registered, that I was sure would not be again disregarded j 
but I knew not my own strength, or rather my own weak' 
ness, against the power of sin in the heart, and the fascinrr 
tions of the world. 

I returned to the house, to find all in confusion an 3 
wildest sorrow — Celia was gone ! 

She had been taken with a fit of coughing, not worst’ 
than others, but had suddenly fallen back and died, without) 
a parting word or look. 

I must not dwell on the sad scenes that followed^-on th|i 
pa'll and gloom of burial— on the void that is felt in a house? 
when the pleasant voice and sweet smile, so like sunshine to> 
the heart, are quenched in the silence and darkness of tho 
grave. 

What can cheer the mourner’s heart, if the peace o 
religion be wanting ? 




GOING HOME. 


221 


r 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

GOING HOME. 

The ensuing summer I was engaged, by Col. Butler’s 
means, as teacher of the school in his neighborhood, the 
avails of which were most acceptable. 

I visited Clemence, too, once more ; Mr. Wurth came for 
me at the instigation of Maggy. But it was a painful visit, 
awakening sad associations, and was the source of regret 
rather than of pleasure. 

The Mudges were invited by Maggy to meet me at her 
father’s. Miss Telia seemed more than ever sarcastic, and 
even unkind. Mr. Wurth was then a boarder with them, 
and I think she was vexed that I came there again, fearing 
the defeat of her own designs. 

I bore, without appearing to notice them, several cutting 
retorts in the course of the afternoon, till at length she 
said something which quite broke down my self-command, 
and I burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. Xor 
Gould I get over it, but was obliged to leave the room, 
filling the family with concern, troubling Maggy extremely, 
and spoiling the pleasure of all. 

The next day I returned, taking a long farewell of my 
kind friends the Campbells. With Maggy I kept up an 
• occasional correspondence, till some time after she became 


222 


HOME. 


the wife of Mr. Wurth ; but our paths in life have been 
widely severed. Once again we met, but it was not until 
both had passed from the spring-time to the autumn of 
life. 

At the close of my school, in accordance with my earnest 
desire, Col. Butler, and my Bangor friends, secured a pas- 
sage for me to Boston, with Captain Gilpy, whose trusty 
and excellent character was well known. 

At first I was the only female on board, but the captain’s 
family residence being upon one of the small islands in the 
bay, he anchored his little vessel, and spent the first night 
on shore, taking me with him to his rock-girdled cottage. * 
The next morning his niece, who lived with them, concluded 
to go with me; and visit some friends on Cape Cod. 

She was a self-satisfied, bouncing girl, freckled and red- 
haired, and rejoicing in the euphonious name of MarcyTooth- 
acher ; but she was one of my own sex, and I was glad of 
her company. I confess I did not feel particularly pleased 
when she proposed to accompany me to my Uncle Hastings’s, 
in return for her uncle’s hospitality to me ; but I could not 
decline the honor, so, with some secret misgivings, I escorted 
her to my uncle’s handsome house, and introduced her as a 
guest to pass the night. In addition to her ungainly person, 
she was coarse and repulsive in manner, and essentially ver- 
dant in everything pertaining to good-breeding. 

Bessy was immensely diverted with her, and, though 
treated with perfect civility while there, the actions, looks, 
and name of MarcyToothacher called forth many a witticism, 
and became the standing subject of' raillery and mirth ; 


GOING HOME. 


223 


Bessy declaring that I deserved a premium for bringing 
them such a natural curiosity. 

My cousin was busy in preparation for her marriage, soon 
to take place. Aunt Hastings kept me employed in an- 
swering questions and giving her an account of our life 
while we had been in Maine. 

I had one day quite an animated discussion with Uncle 
Hastings upon the character of those Eastern people. He 
thought them mean and over-reaching in trade, with very 
lax ideas of truth and honesty, as well as coarse and pro- 
fane in their language. 

I warmly defended them from what I knew to be an 
aspersion of their character, and wondered that he could be 
so prejudiced and unjust towards them. I had, indeed, min- 
gled with a refined and elevated class of people, far from 
being such as he represented. I did not consider that I was 
entirely unacquainted with the many fishermen and low 
craftsmen whom he chiefly saw, and who at that time pro- 
bably fully justified his opinion. 

My stay in Boston was prolonged two weeks, much 
against my wishes, but my father had no means of sending 
for me, and could not leave his farm-work sooner to come 
himself. 

Ah ! that was a joyful meeting with my dear parent after 
so long a separation ! 

How I enjoyed the long, quiet ride of two days, every 
moment' bringing me nearer 4iome, and in which I seemed to 
have more close and affectionate intercourse with my father 
than ordinarily in many weeks. 


224 : 


HOME, 


It was a day or two after my arrival before home again 
shone out iu its home-like aspect. How strange, yet familiar 
was every object ! 

Bessy was gone to her husband's home, and at first I 
missed her. Mary was there, looking hopeful and happy, 
and as lovely as ever. 

Grace had, perhaps, a slight shade of dignity superadded, 
a sort of womanly bearing that sat very becomingly on her. 
Hester I had left an unformed, dumpy girl of fourteen. She 
had attained the rounded grace and composed air of the 
young woman ; short and full-formed, she had fair, round 
arms, a pretty neck, and a face of clear white and red, 
though with little pretension to beauty of feature, for her 
head was too large, and her square, broad forehead pro- 
jected over her light blue eyes, injuring somewhat the sym- 
metry of her face. 

Hester was always in good humor ; quite too obliging, 
for she could never keep anything for herself that another 
wanted. She was constitutionally timid and fearful, and 
ever ready to blame herself on the slightest grounds. I 
have seen her so agitated during a high wind as to be nearly 
convulsed, yet making the utmost effort to conceal her suf- 
ferings, because ashamed of her want of self-control. . 

Her talent at mimicry furnished no small amusement to 
her friends, and she was quite distinguished among the 
young people for her fine voice in singing. 

The younger children were so»changed by the lapse of two 
years, that I felt myself quite a stranger to them. 

Willy had always been remarkably small ; now he had 


GOING HOME. 


225 


shot up into a tall boy, with a bright eye, a bold front, a 
ready jest, and the frequent witty repartee. 

Little Rhoda, the youngest, the petted darling of her 
mother, was the imperious little queen of the household. 
She was a child of- faultless beauty, but capricious, exacting^ 
and self-willed ; not so much in natural disposition as 
through over-indulgence, and the ill-judged fondness of her 
mother. In her childhood and haughty youth she was 
almost disliked by her sisters, whom she quite looked down 
upon, but in after years she became lovely in character as in 
person, and greatly endeared herself to her family and 
friends. 

At eighteen she was a bride, and beautiful as a dream. 
Queenly grace was in her elegant figure, and a spell of 
loveliness in her fair face. 

She gave her hand to our young cousin, Mark Leland, 
the son of Uncle Harry and Aunt Kathy, the same who in 
his babyhood so won my childish admiration. He lived at 
some distance from us, and when he carried home his beau- 
tiful bride, there were few happier men, I ween. He was 
captain of .a military company, and a great favorite, and, 
when dressed in his epaulets, he looked indeed a fitting 
match for his peerless bride. 

High-spirited and generous, he had an ever-ready purse, 
which, unfortunately, was too soon empty, and Rhoda’s sub- 
sequent life was a struggle with poverty, sickness, and deep 
affliction. She died, while yet in her prime, shortly after 
following to the grave her only son, a youth of great 
promise. 

* 10 * 


226 


HOME. 


Poor girl ! she had, indeed, many sorrows ; but she nobly 
bore them ! 

Royal, our brother, next older, was a pleasant, quick- 
witted little fellow, a great favorite with us all. 

It was not long before I felt quite at home with my 
brothers and sisters again, and the time of our separation 
faded into the past like an uncertain dream. 
r ; * / 


V. 


SISTERLY CONFIDENCE. 


227 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

SISTERLY CONFIDENCE. . 

“ The tones , 

Of a most pleasant company of friends 
Were in my ear but now.” 

One day, soon after my return, Mary and I had a long 
talk upon our life in Maine, and our friends there, each one 
passing in review, and old scenes lived over again. 

Speaking of Mr. Wurth, she acknowledged she was in 
the wrong, in having felt so- anxious that I should accept 
him. 

“I was trying / 7 said she, “to shape out your course 
myself, in my short-sighted ignorance, instead of viewing, as 
I ought, all events in the hands of God. How wonderful 
are the ways of Providence, and how little are we disposed 
to heed them I Aunt Hastings used to say that * we walk 
as if enveloped in fog, not seeing the path that we take; but 
if we will look back/and scan closely the way we have 
come, we shall find it illumined in light . 7 One year ago, 
how dark and mysterious seemed the path my Heavenly 
Father was leading me ! Xow, all is clear. How wonder- 
fully, too, you have been guided, led, and cared for, in your 
need, while a stranger in a strange land ! 77 

After much similar conversation, she said, rather hesita- 


228 


HOME. 


tingly, “Sam Lyman has rented his farm, and opened a 
store in Westmead .” 

“ Ah,” said I, after scanning her face a moment, “ he 
visits here again, does he ?” * She nodded assent. 

“ Where is the family ?” said I. 

“ Oh ! didn’t you know that Madam Lyman has married 
old Deacon Dudley, of Dudley ville ? He is quite wealthy, 
you know.” 

“ Where are the sisters, Mary and Abby ?” 

“Mary, as gentle and retiring as ever, is soon to be 
married to Samuel Dudley, the deacon’s only son. Report 
says that Madam Lyman found means to break up an 
attachment between this son and a worthy girl living with 
them, on the plea that it was beneath him to marry one in 
the position of ‘ help.’ Whether this is true or not, the 
match between him and Mary is now decided oh, and she is 
worthy of him. He is a fine mail, but some years iier 
senior.” 

“And Abby?” 

“ Abby has been a year or two with her sister, in Boston, 
and has altered so much, you would hardly know her. She 
is soon to marry Moses Chaplain, and be the lady-mistress 
of that large house and farm in Yalleybrook.” 

“ What ! Moses Chaplain, that used to be called the 
Western bear ?” 

“The same. He is very rich, and that suits Mrs. Ly- 
man well. It is said she had some hand in bringing it 
about, but Sam is not very well pleased with the match ; 
he thinks Moses’s habits are not good, and that he thinks 


SISTERLY CONFIDENCE. 


229 


of nothing higher than raising fine cattle, and increasing his 
stock, which, he says, to make the main business of life, is 
quite beneath the dignity of man.” 

I smiled ; for I recollected Sam Lyman’s old way of 
speaking, and thought it precisely what he would say upon 
such an occasion. 

Mary confessed that she was already engaged to her old 
admirer, saying she could not help feeling a grateful regard 
for him, because she had been his sole choice, though she 
had discarded him and married another ; and that her feel- 
ings pleaded powerfully for him from the first renewal of his 
attentions, which had now been some months. 

“Do tell me, Mary,” said I, “what mother meant this 
morning, when she told Grace she was so pice, nobody was 
good enough for her V 

“ Oh, she was referring to David Hill. He visits here 
sometimes, and though Grace likes him well enough as, a 
pleasant acquaintance, that is all ; and mother says she 
holds herself too high ; that if she cannot be satisfied with 
David, and his nice house in Yalleybrook, she hopes she 
will have to take up with a poorer chance, or none.” 

“ David Hill is too shallow and ignorant,” said I ; “he 
knows nothing beyond his shop, and some pretty things to 
say to the girls. Grace would get tired of him, if she had 
# to pass her life with him.” 

“ So Grace thinks. She happened to speak of ‘ Paradise 
Lost,’ when he was here one day, and he wished to borrow 
it. The next time he called, he brought back the book, 
saying that ‘somehow lie couldn’t get the hang of it.’ 


230 


HOME. 


Grace says she must be able to look up to a man, before 
she can have sufficient regard for him to marry him. David 
calls only as a friend, but he evidently admires her, and is 
probably hoping, in time, to gain her affections in return.’' 


MASTER HOWARD AND CHARLES COKE. 


231 


CHAPTER XL. 

MASTER HOWARD AND CHARLES COKE. 

“ I knew there was a rival in the case.” 

My object is to give a plain, unvarnished recital of occur- 
rences as they took place — a simple, true picture of fire-side 
scenes. Life as it is, is made up *of trifles, not of great 
events, therefore many minute and trivial details must enter 
into the story of this portion of my life — the short, remain- 
ing period in which we were all together — a band of sisters 
under our childhood’s roof. 

One, indeed, was already removed ; but our beloved 
Bessy was near by, an hour’s walk would easily bring us to 
her wedded home ; nor were our visits there wont to be 
brief or seldom. 

We were four happy sisters still at home, the youngest 
just sixteen. The ensuing season was one of much gaiety. 

Wayland boasted a numerous and goodly company of 
young people, and it was so easy to find occasions for meet- 
ing together. 

There was the paring bee, and the quilting, and then the 
young men must have their husking match at the gathering 
in of the yellow corn, when the presence of their sisters was 
quite essential, to prepare as well as to partake in the social 
cheer of nuts, cakes, and apples. In winter the singing- 
school, sleigh-rides, and parties, filled up the time. 


232 


HOME. 


My relish for these scenes of gaiety 'was happily kept 
somewhat in check by the purpose I had formed to devote 
my time to improvement in some branches of knowledge ; 
not only for my own benefit, but that I might be the better 
fitted for teaching. 

Our “ school at the brook,” as it was termed because the 
little, square-topped school-house stood on the brink of the 
stream, was taught this season by a young gentleman, called, 
par eminence, “Master Howard,” on account of his fine 
tact and success in teaching, as well as his excellent educa- 
tion. 

He was about twenty-six years old, tall and spare, 
with very light, thin hair, and small, deep-set eyes. Re- 
fined and gentlemanly he certainly^was, yet not to my eyes 
prepossessing. However, he became a frequent guest at our 
house, and I was always happy .to see him. He excelled in 
conversation, and was so enthusiastic in respect to the pro- 
gress of his pupils, that to assist them at all times and sea- 
sons was his great delight. 

I knew that he was pleased with me as a scholar ; he ex- 
pressed his pleasure at my improvement, and praised my 
readiness in mastering difficulties. 

We were very good friends, and I thought of nothing fur- 
ther till one morning, near the close of the school term, hap- 
pening to go unusually early, I found myself alone with the 
master. I was quite confounded when, after sitting by me 
a few moments aiding me in my lessons, he suddenly re* 
quested my permission to visit me occasionally. 

I suppose my fright and confusion had the appearauce of 


MASTER HOWARD AND CHARLES COKE. 


2 bd 


an assent, though I scarce made any reply. I was in a sort 
of maze all day, and in truth not very happy in the thought 
of the new relation in which he had placed himself towards 
me. He had won my respect and regard as my teacher and 
friend, but I felt at that time no answering chord to a closer 
and deeper sympathy. 

There was another who had, since my return home, made 
frequent visits at our house, whose presence always brought 
a thrill to my heart, with an undefinable intuition that I was 
the subject of his thoughts and the object of his calls. 

This was Charles Coke, my old schoolmate, whose kind- 
ness I had often felt when a little girl, for he was ten years 
my senior. He came at first only occasionally, with David 
Hill, then more frequently, until my acquaintance with 
u Master Howard,” since which he had entirely ceased his 
visits, though I did not suspect that to be the cause till 
long afterwards. 

The next season I spent in teaching, at a retired place 
called “ Pudding Hill,” about ten miles from home. 

It was a neighborhood at the foot of a long, low hill, 
which rose in one spot to a round, bare summit, whose form 
suggested the name. The road, lined with houses, orchards, 
and cultivated fields, skirted its base. A bye-lane led to 
the little school-house, high up on the slope of the hill, 
deeply shaded by a grove of chestnut trees, whose branches 
waved close upon the windows, and to whose cool shade I 
repaired at the accustomed hour of “ nooning,” with my 
book and dinner, for the cousin with whom I boarded, lived 
a mile distant from the scene of ray labors. 


234 


HOME. 


My friend, Mr. Howard, wrote me several letters while 
there, which I answered. These were mostly a mere friendly 
exchange on ordinary topics, for I had found courage to 
come to a sort of explanation with him, declining at present 
anything more than a friendly intimacy. 

He still wished a correspondence with me, alleging that 
it would increase our acquaintance and be a means of im- 
provement. 

To this I willingly assented, for I was penetrated with 
gratitude for his preference, and felt myself honored by it. 
I well knew, too, who would be the gainer in the proposed 
“ mutual ” benefit of writing. 

But I was not happy nor at ease ; Isaac Howard was not 
a man to be lightly rejected by any girl ; I could not deny 
that he was everything that I could ask, in his superior 
acquirements and excellent character ; much more, cer- 
tainly, than I had reason to expect. I was now nineteen, 
and ought, surely, to be influenced less by mere fancy thau 
by sober judgment. 

Time after time I resolved to bring myself to the point, 
and settle down satisfied with the honorable, manly regard 
of one so unexceptionable ; but after making such conclu- 
sions a terrible oppression would come over me, as if some- 
thing was irrecoverably lost, and I would again resolve still 
to defer the matter. I knew that my father desired to see 
his daughters well married ; he was poor ; could but just 
struggle along and provide for those dependent upon him ; 
and I may add — what was- the simple truth — it displeased 
and vexed my stepmother to have us all at home. 

- » ^ 

/ 

( 

i 


MASTER HOWARD AND CHARLES COKE. 


235 


I pondered much on the position of my sex, in respect 
to that which, of all things earthly, most affects their hap- 
piness. Having no freedom of choice but in rejection, did 
it then often occur that the secret preference must be 
ignored or quelled, and the sole alternative be, a single life 
with all its loneliness and dependence, or a union in which 
interest or expediency take the lead, leaving sacred, holy, 
deep affection in the background ? 

Some such, doubtless, eventually become unions of souls, 
as well as legal bonds ; but- how many ill-assorted couples 
•we meet, who “ worry along ” together through life — both, 
perhaps, weary of their yoke ! 

I was annoyed, too, by the unwelcome attentions of a 
young man living near my cousin’s — the agent in procuring 
my services as teacher. He made himself very officious 
during my term, in virtue of his office as director of the 
school, and manifested a most benevolent interest in my 
pupils. 

A few days after my return home he came to visit me, 
but I treated him so coolly that he took his leave the same 
night ; being overtaken by a heavy shower, he lost his way, 
and after riding most of the night, arrived home dripping 
wet ; this furnished the subject of a witty letter from my 
cousin, affording us all some amusement. 

One afternoon, shortly after the close of my school, Grace 
and I went, each on horseback, into Yalley Brook ; whether 
for pleasure or upon some errand, I do not now remember ; 
but we chanced to call on our friends, Olive and Linda 
Coke, the sisters of Charles, who was standing in the door, 


236 


HOME. 


and took charge of our horses. I had not seen him for a 
long time, and a barrier seemed to have sprung up between 
us as if we had been strangers. 

Somehow it was proposed by the Cokes to join us, and 
ride down the valley to Western, the next town. We con- 
sented, all was soon agreed upon, and David Hill, their next 
door neighbor, made one of the party. 

When starting off, I tried to manage to get between the 
girls, Olive and Linda — partly to relieve Grace from David’s 
exclusive attention, and partly wishing, I hardly knew why, 
to escape proximity to Charles ; but a movement of some 
of the rest brought me up close beside him and behind the 
others. 

Wishing to say something in my embarrassment, I began 
to rally him upon his riding-stick —an extremely crooked' 
one, which I had seen him select and carefully trim. 

I asked, him, “ Why he did not cut a straighter stick ?” 

He looked down a moment, then, with a peculiar sort of 
meaning sinil^, he answered, 

“ If I should have ever so nice a one, somebody would be 
getting it away from me.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said I, “ unless you like to give it up.” 

These were trifling words, not weighing, apparently, more 
than straws, but in their effects, had a world of meaning. 

The whole current of things was changed, and it seemed 
as if a veil was raised, not only between our hearts but on 
all the world around, I can look back on few scenes of my 
life with such unalloyed happiness as on that ride. 

When we came back and parted at Mr. Coke’s, Charles 


MASTER HOWARD AND CHARLES COKE. 237 

came up to me, and said, in a low tone and with a glowing 
face — “ Perhaps I shall be up your way to-morrow even- 
ing.” 

I bowed without meeting his eye, and rode swiftly away. 

Reader— -I was happy 1 Not with the light-hearted, free, 
girlish gaiety of past years ; the source was deeper and 
broader ; the feeling more still — more profound. 

My father was well pleased with my prospects ; my sis- 
ters full of good-humored raillery. 

Charles Coke was what is called “well to do ia the 
world.” He was very ingenious in the construction of mills 
and all kinds of machinery, and he possessed, independently 
of his father, a pretty little cottage and some lucrative 
mills. 

He was rather below the middle size, but finely formed, 
erect, and graceful, with clear, deep blue eyes, and fine fea- 
tures ; an expression at once grave and gentle, and a smile 
singularly sweet and winning. Such, at least, he appeared 
to me ; and as excellent in character as engaging in perso- 
nal qualities. 

He was quite commonly styled “ Captain Coke,” though 
far enough from being military in person or habit ; but the 
title that was at first given in sport had become a usual 
designation. Hester, in her mirth, used to call him “ Cap- 
tain Forehanded.” 

Meantime, Mr. Howard’s last letter remained long unan- 
swered ; and one morning late in the fall, I was surprised 
by a call from him. He appeared to be in haste, and, after 
sitting a few minutes in the common room, conversing, 


238 


HOME. 


though not in his usual happy manner, he requested to see 
me alone. 

We had but two other rooms below, one appropriated to 
our parents’ use, the other a sleeping -room, in which Hester 
was now shaking the beds, all in the thickest confusion. 

This was, however, the only place where I could speak 
with him in private, and, full of embarrassment, I ushered 
him in,. much to the discomfiture of Hester, who speedily 
made her escape. 

A single question sufficed for his errand. “Was I en- 
gaged ?” 

I felt that frankness was due him on my part, and I an- 
swered in the affirmative. 

“To Captain Coke ?” 

I bowed assent — he expressed a wish for my happiness, 
and immediately took his leave. 

This was at the time a most unpleasant occurrence, and I 
wished he had fixed his thoughts on some one of the many 
others more worthy of him. 

How far distant from my imagination were the events yet 
with the secrets of the Future ! 

How wonderful the ways of Providence, seen in the light 
of the Past I 


NEW TROUBLES. 


230 


CHAPTER XLI. 

- NEW TROUBLES. 

“ Master Howard” was again teaching the winter school 
at “the Brook,” and Charles Coke, though several years 
his senior, became one of his pupils. 

Owing to the peculiar views and character of his father, 
Charles’s early education had been neglected. The elder 
Mr. Coke thought nothing so desirable as the driving for- 
ward, to the utmost extent, of the various branches of his 
business. His children he kept busy, the sons on the large 
farm, at the grist-mill, saw-mill, or in the clothier’s estab- 
lishment ; the daughters, in the dairy, at the loom, or the 
spinning-wheel. 

Charles had good native powers, and, in pursuance of his 
favorite mechanical arts, he desired greater knowledge of 
mathematical principles. In this Mr. Howard excelled, 
and therefore he was not ashamed, though verging on 
thirty, to apply to him for instruction. I esteemed him all 
the more highly for this. I was proud of his course, and 
loved him, if possible, still better for it. 

Two things occurred, however, this winter, to mar my 
happiness, and disturb the fullness of my content. 

I should before have said, that Mary and her old friend, 
Sam Lyman, were married early in winter, and went to 


m 


HOME. 


reside at Westmead, a town some thirty miles distant, on 
the west side of the Connecticut. 

Grace accompanied them, to spend the winter ; so that 
Hester and I alone were left at home. 

Hester’s fine singing led to constant occasions for going 
to one place and another. Almost every day she was called 
for to meet a musical party, practice some new piece, or join 
some social company, and she, on her part, was always 
ready to go, for music was her delight. Her frequent com- 
panion in these gatherings was a young man named Albert 
Fayon, who lived in a remote part of Way land, and with 
whom we had been little acquainted till now that his supe- 
rior tenor voice became a sort of necessary accompaniment 
to Hester’s fine treble. It was the time when the old 
fuguing melody was so prevalent, the different parts chasing 
each other through the tunes with almost endless repeats. 

Albert Fayon thus became a frequent visitor at our 
house, and very attentive to Hester. It was evident they 
liked each other well, and, indeed, for some time they had 
kept, according to the expression of the day, “particular 
company ” together. 

At length days passed, and he did not come — two weeks 
and more— and Hester went moping about the house, spirit- 
less and heavy-eyed, dull and silent. She was usually talk- 
ative and lively, and accustomed to tell me every thing ; 
but I waited in vain for her voluntary explanation of this 
mystery. 

I finally sought, and at length obtained her confidence. 

It appeared that, a few months previously, this young 


NEW TROUBLES. 


24:1 


man had been for some time a boarder in the family of Mr. 
Homer, the father of little Nabby mentioned in the former 
part of my story. She had grown up a tall, dashing girl, 
bold and hoydenish in manners, and quite free in the com- 
pany of the other sex. 

Now, to be brief, she found herself in trouble. Her 
parents were no longer in ignorance of her shame, and 
Albert, knowing the truth must soon appear, came to my 
sister and confessed his guilt, entreating her to overlook it, 
saying that the blame rested not altogether with him ; that 
his affections were still Hester’s, and that he wished to 
marry her, if she would but accept him. Hester decided at 
once ; and, with a true womanly spirit, as well as according 
to principles of justice, urged him to make the atonement 
within his power to Nabby, by a speedy union with her. 

She wavered not a moment in her decision ; she did not 
betray her feelings to him, but she was sorely stricken, 
Nor was the wound less deep because it was secret, and 
unsuspected to the eye of the world. 

Hester never loved again. 

She is living still in her maidenhood — a fair, cheerful, 
serene old lady. To want, sickness, and sorrow she has 
ever been the ministering angel of comfort. For these 
many years a devoted, humble follower of “ Him who loved 
her and gave himself for her,” who “ went about doing 
good,” she is looking forward, in the assured hope of being, 
ere long, transplanted to the heavenly garden, where the 
plants do not wither, nor the flowers fade. 

Far happier has been her quiet lot than the stormy life 
11 


242 


HOME. 


of Albert and his unprincipled wife ; for social crime not 
seldom receives, even in this world, its own peculiar punish- 
ment. A union, necessarily lacking the foundation of 
respect, could hardly be’ expected to attain the super- 
structure of affection ; and though they kept up the show 
of domestic happiness, there were those who knew too well 
that it was but a hollow pretence, and that the angel of 
peace was almost a stranger in their dwelling. 

I said there were two things that troubled me ; the 
second recalls to mind that saying of the colored preacher, 

“ If you know any thing that will make your fellow-man 
happy, run quick and tell it to him ; but if you hear what 
will cause him grief, or trouble, keep it locked close in your 
own breast.” Much sorrow would be spared, did all act 
from this direction ; but, unhappily, an unwelcome report, 
or an unkind speech, is sure to reach its object : some one 
“feels it a duty” to repeat it. 

It was intimated to me, about this time, that the Coke 
family were not pleased with Charles’s choice. They said 
I was “ too lively, too fond of company and gaiety ; that I ' 
should make him an unprofitable wife, drawing heavily 
upon his purse-strings, instead of helping him forward in 
<!ife ; and withal, that, though proud enough, and fond of 
appearing well, I was a poor girl, without a cent to do 
with, and that Charles might have done much better.” 

I could not but feel that, from the genius of the family 
and their habits, some such thoughts of me would naturally 
arise in their minds, and I was deeply grieved at the idea of 
appearing in such a light to the parents of my affianced 


NEW TROUBLES. 


243 


husband. Besides, if Charles heard such things said, would 
they not affect his own feelings towards me ? This was a 
bitter thought, and I brooded over it some days, with a 
heavy heart, and swollen eyes.. 

Not wishing to meet Charles in this state of mind, I went 
over to Bessy's home, to open my heart to her, and seek 
her counsel. I told her all my wounded, resentful feelings, 
and that I had almost resolved to tell Charles we must 
separate, for I could not enter his family against their 
wishes. 

“ No," said my prudent sister, tl do no such thing. Con- 
* 

quer your pride, and look calmly at the matter ; it is best 
to look things fairly in the face, and then they often put on 
a brighter aspect." 

“I have been thinking of little else for the last three 
days,” said I. 

“ No," she answered, “ you have only been looking on 
one side of it 1 — the one reflected from your own wounded 
spirit. Yery possibly you have heard more than was ever 
said, for you know a story loses nothing by being repeated. 
How did you hear it ?" 

“ Sally Green told me ; she stayed at our house one night 
last week, and we slept together, and she told me, because 
she thought I ought to know it. You know her brother 
Josiah’s wife is Mr. Coke's eldest daughter, and she heard 
it from her." 

“ Sally Green loves to talk, too well," said Bessy. “ It 
was not acting the part of a friend to tell you remarks that 


HOME. 


244 : 

were never intended for jour ear, if, indeed, they were ever 
made.” 

“ I know it> would not grieve her much to break oif our 
engagement if she could ; she wants Charles herself. I have 
never reckoned her among my friends, still I think' there 
must be some truth in it.” 

“ Truth in it ?” said Bessy ; “ certainly there is, and in 
the widest sense, too ; probably they have said something 
of the kind, nor do they ever say more than they feel ; but 
have they not reason for it ? You cannot deny that you 
are a poor girl, that can bring no dowry to your husband, 
and we must look at the light in which they tiew things, in 
order to judge correctly. They are all for work, and get- 
ting rich, and think it absurd .to lay aside any business for 
visiting, or what they call frolicking ; dress they despise — 
and they never tlnnk of opening a book, for reading with 
them is a waste of time. We are different. It is then no 
wonder that they dislike to see their eldest son, so promis- 
ing and well to do, in danger of ruin, as they think, from 
gaiety, company, and extravagance.” 

This was but probing the wound, and, with a pang at my 
heart, I looked up reproachfully, saying, 

“ Then we had best separate at once, for I could never 
please them, and should only make Charles unhappy.” 

“ It is Captain Coke you expect to marry,*” returned she, 
“ not the family. He is a man who thinks deeply, and ob- 
serves well ; all this is known to him, and has doubtless been 
duly considered. I mean,” said she, smiling, as I made a 


NEW TROUBLES. 


245 


motion to speak, “ that he is aware of the points of diffe- 
rence between his family and ours ; not that he sees just as 
his parents do ; his mind takes a wider range, and he looks 
at life — its purposes, duties, and enjoyments — in a different 
light.” 

“But I do so want to please them, for they are his 
friends.” 

“ I think you will be able to do so in time. But even 
were it otherwise, it should be the same to you. Charles 
has chosen you as his life-companion — he values and seeks 
you for the qualities you actually possess. Therefore it 
only remains for you to stand up in your place^with a mo- 
dest self-respect, and act your part as well as you can ; 
complying with and conforming to the habits of the family 
as far as you deem consistent with duty and propriety.” 

“ But, dear Bessy, is not this rather humbling advice ?” 

11 Humbling ? Perhaps it is ; but pride never makes us 
happier. The truest self-respect comes from a just apprecia- 
tion of ourselves, and this constitutes real humility. He 
who is humble, in the true sense of the term, will always 
possess a certain dignity of character, an essential nobility.” 

I was at first but half satisfied, but a little reflection 
placed the whole matter in a new light, and, contrary to 
my first intention, I returned home the next morning, having 
a secret hope that I should see Charles in the evening at 
home. 

He came, and our conversation turning upon the cultiva- 
tion of the mind, I heard him, with not a little pleasure, 
express his views- of its importance, of the value of good 


246 


HOME. 


books, and of the benefit to be derived from reading and 
study. I had the sweet assurance that no misgivings arose 
in his mind as to the fitness of his choice, but that his esti- 
mation of me had the full consent of reason and judgment. 

I was married the next spring, just before my twentieth 
birth-day. My husband was the man of my choice ; he was 
the handsomest and most wealthy young man of Way land, 
and he was universally respected and beloved. My home 
in Yalley Brook was a neat cottage, separated from the 
main road by a square lawn, bordered with trees ; lilacs and 
rose bushes were under the windows and about the doors. 
Another rgad crossed at right angles, and passing by the 
common entrance, ascended the steep hill-side, having on the 
left our blooming orchard, and on the right a green pasture, 
sprinkled with fine old chestnut trees, while further up the 
hill were our upper orchard and a plantation of sugar ma- 
ples. The road winding along and over the rugged ascent, 
descended on the opposite side to the banks of the Connec- 
ticut, and to the pretty town of Dudley ville, spread" out 
upon its fertile meadows, only five miles distant. 

In front of our house this cross-road led down the gentle 
slope to the brook, there widening into a mill-pond ; and 
the sound of the blacksmith’s trip-hammer, early and late, . 
mingled with ,the ceaseless dash of the water. Skirting 
the mill-pond, on this side the brook, was a large, round 
clump of trees, like a verdant crown, on which the eye loved 
to rest. Beyond, the lapd rose abruptly, and far up, beyond 
a piece of woodland, a rocky pasture, and a strip of mow- 
ing, could be seen through the opening trees a glimpse of a 


NEW TROUBLES. 


247 


red cottage, which was situated on a road near the brow of 
the hill, running parallel with the valley; ; this was Bessy’s 
home, less than a mile distant by the foot-path (kept well 
worn) through the woods and up the steep ascent. In plain 
' sight from our cottage door, peeping through the trees, was 
the large, square-roofed mansion of father Coke ; rising in 
the background was the dark Pine Mountain, while close to 
us was David Hill’s pretty house, neat shop, and trim 
garden. His young wife, Eunice Cotting, the sister of 
Bessy’s husband, had long been one of my most Intimate 
and loved companions. 

As to earthly blessings, my cup was full. Rapt in a 
blissful dream, I was as happy for the next few years as 
any one can be who looks no higher than earth for her por- 
tion. Secure in the gift, I had forgotten the Giver. It 
seemed that my Heavenly Father, who had once and again 
spoken to me by the warning voice of His Providence, to 
lead me to Himself, was now proving me with the boon of 
earthly happiness — more pure and unmixed than often falls 
to the lot of mortals. 

Alas ! Ingratitude and total neglect of my bountiful 
Benefactor was the base return 1 


248 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“it was a dream, and would not stay.” 

Nearly five years had passed. Winter had set in early, 
and there was a deep fall of snow, though not yet quite 
December. The sleighing was excellent in the bright, keen, 
frosty air, and it was Thanksgiving Day, the great festival 
of New England. 

Let us take a peep at my home, and the treasures there. 

My husband was sitting near the fire ; his clear, manly . 
brow lighted up with a look of serene content, as he gazed 
into the wondering eyes of the tiny babe he held in his 
arms, whose little life had wakened into being scarde four 
months since. A little girl of two years, rosy and dimpled, 
stood at his' knee. Her deep-blue eyes were the reflection 
of his own. She was full of childish prattle and gleeful 
ecstasy, to see her baby sister laugh and crow to her. 

My precious boy, not quite four years old — a straight, 
chubby-cheeked, manly little fellow — was helping his happy 
mother to remove the breakfast things, with no slight sense 
of the valuable aid he was rendering. 

We were to have a small but joyous gathering in our 
cottage that day, and I was busy in preparation. Fires 
were lighted in the two square rooms, the furniture furbished 
and arranged in the best manner possible, and the bare, 
white floors freed from soil or dust. The turkey was ready 


IT WAS A DREAM, AND WOULD NOT STAY. 219 

for the spit, the great plum-pudding was in the oven, and 
long rows of pies, of diverse sorts, were set forth in goodly 
array in the pantry. 

In due time the jingling bells announced the arrivals. 
First came Mary and her husband, now residing on his farm 
in Wayland, with their two little girls, Xenia, three, and 
Mary, one year old — sweet little children, with dark, curly 
hair, and witching black eyes. Next came Bessy and 
Brother Cotting ; he so grave and silent, yet laughing at 
the corners of his mouth with much quiet fun, when the joke 
went round. What he said was in a low, steady tone, 
scarce audible across the room, yet always replete with 
sense. 

Two little sons had Bessy. Sammy, three years old, was 
quite a little miniature man, and both sober and roguish. 
Alger was a baby of a few months. Grace, too, was there, 
and with her a tall, dark man, of noble, engaging mien, 
whose name was Cunningham. He was a wealthy young 
farmer of Westmead, and he had won my beautiful sister’s 
hand not long after Mary’s marriage, and very proud of her 
was he. She, too, had a fair, blue-eyed baby-daughter, just 
able to toddle about the room. It was the first time Grace 
had been with us since her marriage, three years before. 
All marked a change in her : a still greater delicacy of form 
and feature. She was very pale, yet, with the least excite- 
ment, a warm flush would brighten her cheek, and an almost 
unnatural lustre would sparkle in her eye. She said she 
was well, and was all vivacity and happiness ; yet I trem- 
bled, for I thought of that insidious foe, consumption ; still 

11 * 


250 


HOME. 


my fears were much allayed by her assurances, and her 
evident enjoyment of life. 

Hester completed the family group. She was to stay 
some days with me, and she now found ample employment 
in watching and admiring all the pretty ways of the little 
nephews and nieces. She was extremely fond of children, 
having her favorites among them, whom she would caress 
with a warmth almost amounting to rapture. 

After our substantial dinner had been duly discussed, the 
gentlemen went together to visit the respectable inhabitants 
of the barn-yard and the sty, and to inspect their horses ; 
returning to sit over the kitchen . fire, discussing politics, 
farm, and town affairs ; while we, the sisters, were by no 
means silent. Questions were asked and answered, laugh- 
ing reproofs administered, jests retorted, and advice asked 
and given. We talked of our children, unfolding to each 
other all the particulars of our separated lives — our plea- 
sures and perplexities, joys and sorrows. 

Two weeks afrer this happy meeting a very different 
group were -gathered in the same place. There were low 
tones, hushed voices, faces that were pale, and hearts 
gathering despair : it was the chamber of mortal sickness. 
In a corner near the fire stood three physicians, talking in 
subdued accents, and glancing from time to time to the bed 
near the middle of the room, on which, lay the sufferer, 
tossing wildly — his strong, well-knit frame convulsed with 
agony. Anxious friends were about his couch, and his 
young wife bent over him, in anguish of soul, praying for 


IT WAS A DREAM AND WOULD NOT STAY. 251 

life — only life ! — praying against hope, with all the might 
of despair, that this sickness might not be unto death. 

That anguish, that despair, was mine! That cup was 
given to me to drink ! 

My husband had been ill a week, the fever increasing 
every moment in violence, and baffling all the skill of the 
physicians. They said there was no hope ! Late in the 
evening he became quiet ; the intensity of suffering had 
spent its force, and exhausted nature was giving way before 
it — or, was it the crisis between life and death, and might 
he not rally again — the vigor of life within him triumph 
over the strength of disease ? No ! the cold dew was on 
his brow — he was dying ! His eye all at once steadied, 
fixed, and settled on mine with earnest meaning — “ Anna!” 
said he, “ we must part !” 

“I cannot* have it so!” I cried, with a burst of anguish. 
“You must not die, and leave me ! you cannot be spared !” 

He closed his eyes, as if wrestling with his feelings. 
Forcing myself, at length, to be more calm, I asked the 
fearful question, “ Are you willing to die ?” 

‘He paused a moment, with eyes still closed ; he was 
summoning all his strength of spirit to the dread encounter. 
“I am willing,” he said, at length ; “all must meet their 
doom.” 

Oh ! the bitterness of that hour ! Even at that awful 
moment came a flash of conscious guilt into my mind, as if 
a mocking spirit said, “ You have cast off your God, broken 
your resolutions, lived as if there were no death — no here- 
after — and now He will not heed your prayers !” 


252 


HOME. 


Our little son was brought to his bedside. “ Love your 
mother,” said he, “ and take care of her.” He stopped — a 
violent paroxysm of pain came on — the struggle was terri- 
ble — and ere midnight he was no more. 

Ah ! that day of sorrow ! Utterly prostrate, helpless, 
impotent, and desolate — my idol, my life, my . all was 
snatched away ! My sky was dark, the star of hope clean 
gone — the bright sunshine was a fierce glare — clouds and 
storms the angry scowl of defiance ! Even my children, 
before my joy and treasure, at first only seemed to add 
weight and poignancy to the blow. 

Thousands there were who lived on as I had done, in 
.total neglect of God ; walking in the light of their own 
eyes, and after the counsels of their own hearts ; yet they 
were not smitten — their sun went not down at noon — their 
idols were not cut off ! 

Such was the daring language of my rebellious heart ; 
thus I arraigned the justice of the Disposer of all ! 


BEHIND THE CLOUD IB THE BUN STILL SHINING. 253 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“behind the cloud is the sun still shining.” 

Better thoughts came — the promptings of the spirit of 
Grace. I learned to look up to God — blessed be His 
name ! with sweet submission — to recognize His tender 
love evfen under his afflictive rod. 

But it was long ere the bitterest drop of all was taken 
away. I knew that he who was gone had lived not only 
thoughtless of God, but profoundly ignorant of His word 
and His will. His parents professed a belief in univer- 
sal salvation, but lived literally “ without God in the 
world.” They never went to meeting ; their children spent 
fhe Sabbath as they listed, frequently attending church 
because other young people did, but were entirely heed- 
less of their obligations to their Creator. This had troubled 
me occasionally ever since my marriage, but now the thought 
was a constant leaden weight upon my heart, with a keen 
sense of my own guilty lack, for I had been religiously in- 
structed from childhood. I knew my duty, but I did it not. 
Who could know what the effect might have been of my 
example and influence on my Charles, ever so kindly obser- 
vant of my wishes, so ready to listen to me, even to solicit 
the expression of my inmost feelings. 

My tortured mind dwelt on the parting scene. I strove 


* 


254 HOME. 

to fix on his words, “ I am willing,” as an anchor of com- 
fort ; but my soul saw too clearly now — all mists were rolled 
back ; the spirit could indeed nerve itself to meet that 
which could not be shunned — with no alternative ; the body 
wrung with pain might choose death rather than life ; but 
was this the Christian’s hope — the believer’s trust ? 

But after a time this, my heaviest burden, was mercifully 
lifted, and I was enabled sweetly to commit all my cares 
and sorrows to Him who is mighty to save. A God glori- 
ous in Love and Mercy became the great subject of my 
thoughts, seeming to fill my whole being and the whole mea- 
sureless universe around me. The world was as nothing. 
I wondered at my past life ; it seemed such an amazing 
state of blind selfishness and ingratitude. 

I thought of myself not as a child of God, but as one of 
the least of his creatures ; yet my mind was calm and peace- 
ful, and I even felt a sort of serene joy in the thought that 
my earthly happiness had been yielded up at His sovereign 
fiat, as if immolated on His altar. I repeated continually 
in my heart, “ the Lord loveth a cheerful giver” — and the 
words brought refreshing comfort. My feelings at this 
time were all within my own breast ; none spoke to me of 
the state of my mind, and though the words were ofttimes 
on my lips, a shrinking reluctance prevailed, and X opened 
my heart to no one. • Gradually light shone upon my path, 
and my duty to my God, and to my children, began to stand 
out to my view; it became my great purpose and desire first 
to confess Christ before men, then to nurture for Him the 
precious souls he had entrusted to me. 


BEHIND THE CLOUD IS THE SUN STILL SniNING. 255 

My soul thirsted for some communication, sympathy, and 
counsel, upon this subject. My father, to whom I longed 
to unfold my anxieties, was ill in health and I saw him but sel- 
dom, never alone. About this time my Uncle James Lyle 
accompanied me to the shiretown to see the judge on the 
business of settlement. He being “ first deacon ” of the 
church, as well as a revered relative, it seemed a favorable 
opportunity to speak upon the matter nearest my heart. 
Accordingly, with much diffidence and hesitation, I com- 
menced, saying that my thoughts had been of late much 
exercised upon the duties of religion — that I had a wish to 
unite myself with the people of God. 

He answered at once, in a quick, careless manner, 

“It will be a very good thing. You had better join the 
church, by all means.” 

I cannot describe how I was chilled and thrown back 
upon myself by this indifferent tone and manner, as if some- 
thing most dear and sacred to me had been rudely handled 
and treated as of no moment. 

Uncle Lyle was, I truly believe, a good man-<-a follower 
of the Saviour — and was looked upon as a model of piety ; 
but religion at that time seemed veiled and hidden — a can- 
dle under a bushel — not upon a candlestick, giving a light 
to all around. 

But my Heavenly Father provided for my need — sending 
to me, from a quarter where I least expected it, that great 
blessing— a true Christian friend. 

Mrs. Chaplain, in the former part of my story mentioned 
as Abby Lyman, now the wife of Moses Chaplain, lived 


256 


HOME. 


about half a mile from my dwelling, further down the valley 
on the main road. Their house was, however, just within 
the boundary of Western, the next town, where she attended 
meeting, and I was ignorant of the great change Divine 
Grace had wrought in her, taking hold of all the strong 
powers of her soul. She knew nothing of my religious state, 
for we had had but occasional intercourse. 

Quite unexpectedly, early one morning, she came, bring- 
ing her sewing in her hand, to sit and talk with me. She 
said it had been in her mind to come, from day to day, ever 
since my affliction. 

“ And now, my dear,” said she, “is it all right between 
you and your Father above, whose hand is laid so heavily 
upon you ? Can you look*up ?” 

My answer was a burst of tears, and an earnest impetu- 
ous cry broke from my lips, 

“ I can say from the depths of my heart, ‘just and mer- 
ciful are all His ways.’” 

Then followed between us a long, unrestrained conversa- 
tion ; the "flow of mutual experience, of the dealings of God 
with us. It was as a fountain of cold water to my parched 
soul. 

Mrs. Chaplain had had many and severe trials. Her 
husband, who inherited a large and valuable farm, was a 
coarse, illiterate man ; a hard worker and a hard drinker j 
hurrying and driving upon his farm-work, and giving heed 
to nothing beyond ; withal bitterly opposed to what he 
was wont to style, with an oath, “ religious ways.” 

His wife was a large-souled, noble woman, of great inde- 


BEHIND THE CLOUD IS THE SUN STILL SHINING. 257 

pendence ; by which I mean, that she was fearless in doing 
what she considered to be right. When she felt it her duty 
to profess her faith in Christ publicly, she did so, without 
consulting or informing her husband, for he never went to 
the house of worship ; she would not risk his refusal ; he 
had forbidden her to attend any religious meeting except on 
the Sabbath, and instead of aiding her to go then, he would 
place every obstacle in her way, and often she would take 
the horse from the stable or pasture herself, and ride off 
alone to the little church four miles distant. 

Her little son, instead of being permitted to go with her, 
was many a time taken by his father to some scene of 
revelry, to witness drinking and profaneness in his own pa- 
rent, learning ways which wrung'the heart of his mother. 

At home, if her husband chanced to find her engaged in 
reading the Bible, his anger knew no bounds. Coarse and 
vulgar language, even personal abuse, were then her por- 
tion, yet she bore it all with exemplary patience. 

Nor was she exempt from sorrow of a different nature. 
Sickness visited her family, and death once took from her 
tender embrace an infant of only a few days by a distressing 
accident. Her nurse had been called away, and the child 
was for a short time entrusted to the care of a young house- 
maid. By some unpardonable awkwardness she let the lit- 
tle thing fall upon the stone hearth, dislocating its tiny 
limbs in a most shocking manner. I was soon sent for, and 
found all my sympathies called into full play between the 
grieving mother and the horror-stricken girl, who could not 
forgive herself for her blundering carelessness. 


258 


HOME. 


Death soon relieved the little sufferer -from its anguish, 
but the mother at first “ refused to be comforted.” 

Still, in this as in all her sorrows, she “ went and told 
Jesus,” and from the rich supplies of Heavenly comfort 
which she received at His bountiful hand, she was ena- 
bled to dispense to others. 

Her trials taught her to feel for the woes of the afflicted, 
and many a lesson of resignation and trust did she teach to 
me by her example and her counsel. 


MRS. CHAPLAIN. 


. 259 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

MRS. CHAPLAIN. 

“ A perfect woman, nobly planned, 

To warn, to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light.” 

“ Her noble deeds leave ‘ footprints on the sands of time,’ and her good works, 
* such as become those who profess godliness,’ find Record in the Book of Life.” 

The remembrance of my friend, Mrs. Chaplain, awakens 
in my mind many interesting reflections. I love to trace 
the threads of her checkered web of life, and by the recital 
of her subsequent course, and the fortunes of her children, 
recall her history, and note the manner in which the many 
trying passages of their lives have been conducted by an 
overruling Providence to such happy issue. 

“Evil men,” .we are told, “shall wax worse and worse.” 
The conduct of Moses Chaplain to his workmen and neigh- 
bors became more and more surly and overbearing. His 
downward career was a rapid one. Through frequent 
drunkenness and nightly carousals, his business was ne- 
glected, and his property wasted, till, from the accumulation 
of debt, he was forced to the sale of his large farm and 
handsome house, for the satisfaction of the reasonable 
demands of his numerous creditors. 

Abby Lyman had been induced to become his wife by the 


260 


HOME. 


persuasions of her ambitious mother, Madam Dudley, in 
whose eyes wealth was the highest qualification, overtopping 
every other characteristic, whether of mind or person. 

To her imperative sway Abby was ever accustomed to 
yield with unquestioning deference ; and, affectionate in her 
nature, she no doubt thought she loved the wealthy young 
suitor on whose advances her mother evidently looked with 
so much favor. Her after-life proved that it was a cruel 
sacrifice upon the altar of Mammon : her best feelings were 
outraged by coarseness and cruelty ; the common rights and 
amenities due to a wife — to a woman, sensitive and refined — 
were rudely trampled upon ; she was reproached and ridi- 
culed on account of her religion, and constantly annoyed by 
acts of petty tyranny. It is written, “ that all things work 
together for good to them that love God,” and doubtless 
the severe trials of Mrs. Chaplain, under the disciplining 
hand of her Heavenly Father, thus wrought out good for 
her, strengthened in her soul the upright purpose, made her 
spirit pure, patient, lovely; and calling forth the nobler 
elements of her character, fitted and prepared her for the 
arduous work she afterwards accomplished, that of pro- 
viding for her young family, and training them up, unas- 
sisted, save by the blessing of God, for stations of usefulness 
and honor. When, by the bankruptcy of Mr. Chaplain, his 
family was left without a home and penniless, the mother 
roused her energies and took upon herself the burden of 
their support. With courage and resolution, she looked at 
her position and formed her plans. Some distant relatives 
of her father, Colonel Lyman, who were wealthy, resided in 


MRS. CHAPLAIN. 


261 


Boston : to them she made known her situation and wishes, 
and, by their favorable aid -and patronage, she was eligibly 
established as mistress of a boarding-house, in a central part 
of the city. 

There, in arduous and severe labors, no less than in judi- 
cious plans and efforts, her ample energies were successfully 
applied to the maintenance and education of her children. 
There were deep struggles with poverty, there was the 
breaking down of pride ; for, in her country home, hers had 
been a commanding position ; but these things she endured 
and overcame, in the humble spirit and with the strong 
faith of the Christian The younger children were sent to 
the excellent schools so justly the pride of Boston, and the 
services of the elder made available in different ways. Two 
sons were, after a time, placed with a goldsmith, and became 
masters of that lucrative trade. The two daughters wrought 
with their needles, with industry and ingenuity, and were 
soon able to provide for their own wants ; and availing 
themselves of the advantages of education within their 
reach, subsequently became accomplished teachers. Char- 
lotte, the elder, a girl of strikingly fine appearance, was in 
her childhood unlovely in temper, and, like her father, 
sometimes peevish, and frequently overbearing and selfish. 
But these faults of her natural disposition she was enabled, 
by divine grace, to conquer so fully, that as a young lady 
she became as truly engaging in character as in person, and 
united in a rare degree the sweet, lowly virtues and graces 
with a fine queenly bearing and noble dignity, peculiarly 
charming. She became the wife of a man of eminent 


262 


HOME. 


worth and respectability, and, surrounded by her lovely 
young family, deservedly enjoys no small share of earth’s 
richest blessings. The younger sister, the gentle and lovely 
Emily, ever, from early childhood, the darling of the house- 
hold, was always delicate in constitution and health : she 
died young, and died most happily, leaving behind her a 
sweet savor of the power and blessedness of the religion of 
Christ. There were two younger sons : of these, one fills a 
professor’s chair ; the other lives, a prominent and useful 
Christian, in the city. Thus, during all these years, this 
heroic mother had struggled on, .patiently meeting and 
overcoming every obstacle, till she saw all her children 
pious, honored, and happy. In words describing another, 
“ her good sense, assiduity, tenderness, and vigilance, over- 
came every obstacle ; and as the richest reward of a mo- 
ther’s solicitude and toil, she had the happiness of seeing 
her children come forward with a fair promise into life, 
filling the sphere allotted to them in a manner equally 
honorable to themselves and to the parent who had been 
the only guide of their principles, conduct, and habits.” 
What greater reward for a mother ! 

The besotted husband and father she supported, mainly, 
from their first removal. .He hung as an incubus on her 
steps, 5- constant source of grief and mortification. At first 
he obtained a little stall in the market, and purveyed some- 
what for the comfort of the family ; but old habits and 
fresh temptations subjected him to their debasing thrall, and 
bound him in a willing chain, until at length he wa 3 arrested 
for debt. By the exertions of his family he was soon libe- 


MRS. CHAPLAIN. 


2G3 


rated, but again he plunged into excesses, and, for some 
offence against the law, was lodged in the common jail. 

After some years, Mrs. Chaplain obtained a divorce from 
her unworthy husband, and his children subsequently placed 
him in the household of a poor cousin in his native Way- 
land, amply providing for his support and comfort. There 
he still lives, the decrepit wreck of his own vicious habits, \ 
a mournful monument of the evils of self-indulgence. A' 
proper control first of his temper, then of his appetites, 
might have prolonged to him health, wealth, and loving 
friends; but the adage^ is thus again verified, “A man’s 
worst foes are often within himself.” After the toilsome 
pilgrimage up life’s rugged hill, Mrs. Chaplain’s evening is 
spent upon its tranquil summit ; for, 

“ Rightly it is said 
That we descend into the vale of years ; 

Yet I have thought that we might also speak, 

And not presumptuously, I trust, of age 
As of a final eminence, a throne 
That may be likened unto his, 

Who in some placid day in summer looks 
Down from mountain-top.” 

Respected and beloved by many friends, and tenderly 
cherished by her. grateful children, she resides in the luxu- 
rious homes of her prosperous sons, whose names are well 
and honorably known. 

In the shifting turns of life, my early friend, Abby Lyman, 
and myself, have at different times enjoyed much pleasant 
companionship, not only in Wayland, but in Boston, in 
which place I, too, in the providence of God, afterwards 


264 


HOME. 


found a home. It is now many years since we have met ; 
we shall not probably meet again on the shores of time, but 
a future communing will, I trust, be ours, when we shall 
“ sit together in heavenly places,” in a world of blessedness, 
peace, and love. 


“ Blessed are the pure in heart.” 


SOWING AND REAPING. 


265 


CHAPTER XLV. 

SOWING AND REAPING. 


“ All ye who run in Folly’s race, 

To win a worthless prize — 

Learn from the simple tale trace, 
Where tr^ie contentment lies !” 


In 'connection with the Chaplains, whose story has been 
narrated in the last chapter, another family rises to my 
recollection, also neighbors, who lived at about an equal 
distance from my home in another direction. To my mind, 
the different fortunes of these two families, contrasted, form 
a history both marked and instructive. Let me briefly 
trace that of the Rosses. 

At the time of which I would speak, both families were 
rich, and exerted much sway in their immediate neighbor- 
hood. Esquire Ross was a tanner, and had a large and 
flourishing business. He possessed a wonderful facility for 
making money flow into his own coffers, and had acquired a 
handsome property in Talley Brook. Some points in his 
character, as well as circumstances, resembled those of 
Moses Chaplain, whose churlishness, even when young, 
gained him the appellation of the “ Western Bear.” Esquire 
Ross, too, was uot unfrequently stern in manner, surly and 

12 


266 


HOME. 


curt in words, and overbearing to those in his employ. 
When seeking to secure some end, however, he could be 
bland, even facetious and merry. He was strictly tempe- 
rate in his habits, passably intelligent, and possessing much 
natural shrewdness, he wieLded no small influence in town 
affairs ; but he was regardless of principle, and his heart 
was utterly steeled against the necessities of the poor, or 
the interests of others, when in conflict with his own. 

In spite of these dark shades in his character, however, 
he was better than his wife ; for, with equal lack of right 
principle, and, if possible, greater selfishness, she was igno- 
rant, little-minded, and excessively vain, constantly exacting 
the homage of others to their various displays of wealth. 
The absence of a moral sense of right, and the felt obliga- 
tion of duty as a principle of action, was lamentably appa- 
rent in the guidance of her household. Their eldest was an 
idiot, but they had several fine children, who, with the early 
influence of right motives, might have been trained up to 
good and noble impulses, and have possessed a strength of 
moral character able to defy the seductive temptations of 
youth. Lessons of some kind, children will inevitably learn ; 
habits of mind, either good or bad, will surely be formed — 
while we think not of it, impressions may be dropped into 
the mind of a child like seed in a fertile soil. The teachings 
of Mrs. Ross, both by instruction and example, fostered 
pride of heart, and frivolous ostentation of wealth, and con- 
tempt and supercilious demeanor towards others less favored 
in fortune than themselves. We mingled more or less in 
the usual social and neighborhood courtesies ; our children 


SOWING AND REAPING. 


267 


went to the same school, and played together, and in such 
limited circles the influence of each person is correctly rated, 
and usually tells, too, in its effect upon the others. 

She would say to a child when going from home to visit, 
or even when going to church — 

“ Now, hold up your head ; you are dressed like a pink, 
better than any other little girl, and your father is the 
richest man in town.” 

Such teaching, from a parent, brought forth its fruit in 
the ready soil of the heart. 

She was a fond and careful mother in respect to the out- 
ward comfort of her children, and especially as to their ap- 
pearance in the eyes of others ; but while their bodies were 
fed and clothed sumptuously, evil and noxious weeds were 
early nurtured in their too pliant hearts. “ Bad habits are 
the thistles of the heart, and every indulgence of them is a 
seed from which will spring up a new crop of weeds.” A 
natural consequence was, that the young Rosses thought 
their own opinions, their own dresses, their own possessions 
of whatever sort, superior to those of any or all of their 
associates. A ludicrous instance of this was shown in the 
expression of one of the little boys while one day visiting a 
playmate. The graveyard was near, and they had gone to 
amuse themselves by reading the lettering upon the stones, 
when some trifling altercation arose, and little Master Ross 
ran pouting off by himself, and taking his seat astride upon 
a tall stone, he exclaimed, 

“I don’t care — my grandfather’s gravestone is bigger 
than your grandfather’s gravestone is.” 


268 


HOME. 


Almost a caricature upon the absurd points upon which 
superiority is often claimed in older circles. 

The Sabbath — that moral safeguard — was with this 
family a day of pleasure-seeking and idle roaming. To 
church, indeed, they usually went, and experienced the gra- 
tification of attracting much general notice ; but the re- 
mainder of the day w T as devoted to riding or visiting — their 
children being left to follow such amusements as their fancy 
dictated. In fruit time, their apprentices and workmen, 
young men and lads, with their sons — a noisy company — 
would frequently on Sunday pass my cottage, on their way 
up the hill, to regale themselves with some choice fruit from 
“ Widow Coke’s orchard,” making no secret of their pur- 
pose, nor deigning to ask permission. 

The conscientious observance of the Sabbath, I have ever 
noticed, acts as the strong bulwark of morals and religion, 
and as a wall of defence against temptations to evil. On 
the contrary, let the obligations of holy time be disregarded, 
and the day be given up to idleness and recreation, and a 
gate is opened to vice and irreligion in every form. 
Thoughts on Sunday should be the best and most effective 
of any during the week ; good thoughts enter the heart 
most easily and most deeply then, and with least disturbing 
influence from the world. 

Few minds are unobservant of the many wonderful turns 
in human life — unthought of — unnoticed, perhaps, by the 
busy actors in the scene — by which the Sovereign Arbiter 
of great and small among men, disposes of families in the 
working of His providence. 


SOWING AND HEAPING. 


269 


The dealings of God in the history of families and indivi- 
duals, as well as of nations, are often mysterious to us, in- 
scrutable in purpose, and as if governed by chance ; yet a 
retrospective view shows us a clear and constant connection 
between character and destiny. The family exists, as such, 
only in this world, and although personal accountability is 
to be referred * to eternity alone, yet who can doubt that 
parents and children, brothers and sisters, are dealt with 
here, according as they have severally met their mutual 
relations and obligations. In the subsequent career of the 
children of Esquire Ross, this may be distinctly noted. For 
some time all went prosperously with them ; their wealth 
enabled them to flourish in pomp and splendor, equally 
feared and caressed, though truly loved and esteemed 
by few. But a change came : Pamela, a sweet child, the 
youngest and loveliest of their blooming circle, and not long 
after the youngest boy, also an uncommonly fine child, were 
both removed by death. Their idiot son, always a source 
of great mortification to the parents, became, on reaching 
adult age, very troublesome and unmanageable, displaying 
extremely low and brutal propensities, so that he was the 
fear and terror of the neighborhood. There were two sons 
besides ; the elder of these disgraced himself 'by effecting 
the ruin of a poor servant girl in his own father’s house, and 
when exposure came, denied his guilt, and, abetted by his 
haughty family, traduced the girl and left her to her fate. 
The younger son, while a mere lad, plunged into the worst 
and vilest excesses, and became notorious as a common thief 
and vagabond, and in early manhood died miserably, no one 


270 


HOME. 


knew where, even his own family apparently taking no no- 
tice of his death, for his name had ceased for some time to 
be mentioned in his father’s house. I well remember him as 
a lively, high-spirited, and handsome boy, the favorite of his 
mother. She did not live to know his sad career and mise- 
rable end. She fell into lingering ill-health, without herself 
apprehending any danger ; while others marked her as the 
victim of consumption, she shut her eyes to her increasing 
weakness and hectic symptoms, still cherishing the hope of 
returning health ; her portion was in this world, and she 
could not bear the unwelcome thought of death. At the 
very last, she died in her chair, almost with the words on 
her lips — “ I can not die now ; I will not die ; save me, 
doctor 1” As the words floated away on the air, a parox- 
ysm of coughing stopped her breath for ever ! 

Three daughters were left ; Mary, the eldest, was a 
showy girl, with a brilliant complexion and fine eyes ; she 
had, too, many superficial accomplishments, and possessed 
good natural powers, with some shrewdness like her father ; 
but the lack of moral principle led her into a fatal mistake 
in respect to that matter justly considered of greatest mo- 
ment to woman, and which, perhaps, more than any other, 
displays her true qualities of heart. 

She had gained the affections of a young physician, an 
honorable, high-minded man. They were pledged in mar- 
riage and the preliminaries arranged, when she chanced, at 
one of her gay visits, to fall in company with a dashing 
young merchant from a distant village, reputed as wealthy. 

He was attracted by Mary’s beauty and lively manners, 


SOWING AND REAPING. 


271 


and his attentions being well received, he pursued them ; 
his vanity was gratified by her evident favor, and with a 
mischievous desire to supersede her love, and exhibit his 
own superior attractions, he continued his assiduities, and 
became a regular visitor. The designing girl blinded the 
eyes of her affianced lover by various deceits and subter- 
fuges, for some time receiving the visits of both gentlemen. 
On one occasion, the two were at her house at the same 
time, she adroitly managing to share her company, alter- 
nately, with each. At the close of the evening, the uncon- 
scious dupe of her treachery took his leave in good faith, 
and with full confidence in her affection ; the ensuing day 
he received from her amhort, unfeeling note of dismission ; 
thus she ruthlessly cast away the true affection of a noble- 
hearted man. 

She soon after married her new lover, and in little more 
than a year she found herself the wife of a ruined man — a 
spendthrift, dissolute and worthless ; his wealth was wasted 
by excess, and he had no longer money or character, while 
her life was embittered by his ill treatment ; for as their 
union was not founded on mutual respect and esteem, neither 
was it cemented by enduring affection, and her life passed 
in a vain struggle of wounded pride to keep up the appear- 
ance of gentility, and maintain a precarious and doubtful 
position among the gay and fashionable. Her sister, near- 
est in age, Martha, a small, dark-complexioned, black-eyed 
girl, was by far the most estimable of the family ; she was 
early united to an old schoolmate of her childhood, a well- 
meaning man, with whom, indeed, she lives happily, but his 


272 


HOME. 


inefficiency and feebleness of character and purpose, led to 
their frequent removal from place to place, each time be- 
coming poorer, till at length they went to. a manufacturing 
village, and there the daughter of the proud Mrs. Ross, 
with her husband — they had no children — became daily 
operatives in a cotton mill. One other daughter remained 
— the sparkling Julia ; she most resembled her mother in 
person and character, and coming upon the stage after her 
father had acquired large wealth, full scope was given to 
her vain pride and love of display. 

Lively and witty, the youngest of the family, petted and 
caressed, she deemed that the ascendency of wealth and 
station screened her name from the effect of each folly and 
extravagance, and after a giddy course of gaiety, she gave 
her hand, while yet quite young, to a man of equivocal 
reputation, a broker of the city, one of those characters who 
always have money to spend, but no one can divine by what 
means. And now, with an establishment in a style of lavish 
profusion, in a fashionable quarter of Boston, the gay Julia 
thought herself highly favored, and like the silken butterfly, 
lived only in the thoughtless present ; her associates were 
the very froth of the heartless and corrupt city circles of 
gaiety — the mere devotees of pleasure, and their baneful 
influence took effect ; in two or three years from their mar- 
riage, it began to be whispered abroad that Julia Ross and 
her husband had separated ; soon it was known that she, 
with her child, had sought a home with her dressmaker, and 
was ostensibly supporting herself by her needle. Yague ru- 
mors there were, of visits, evening rides, and costly presents ; 

i 


SOWING AND REAPING. 


273 


but the particulars of the sad story of shame, no one knew ; 
her thoughtless levity, and the gratification of early-fostered 
vanity, opened a too ready avenue to the seductive ap- 
proaches of vice. 

Henceforward she held no communication with her sisters, 
nor ever visited her father’s house, and not long after she 
went far from her friends, and the scenes of her girlhood, to 
a southern city, and her fate is involved in obscurity. 

Esquire Ross still lives, as grasping and worldly as ever, 
soured in temper — an unhappy old man. His large, empty 
house, is not enlivened by the cheerful presence of dutiful 
children, nor by the happy voices of grandchildren. 

The garden has fallen into decay, the house looks weather- 
beaten and gloomy ; it is as if the frown of God rests upon 
the household who “ acknowledge not. Him in all their 
ways.” 


12 * 


274 


HOME. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

“not lost,, but gone before.” 

“ The life which is, and that which is to come, 

Suspended hung in such nice equipoise, 

A breath disturbs the balance.” 

It was not many months after the death of my husband, 
when time, the healer, had but just begun to subdue the 
poignancy of my bitter grief, that I was called to a new 
sorrow. Grace — our beloved sister, the fairest of the flock — 
was soon, we plainly saw, to exchange her earthly home for 
a heavenly one. 'She had always been delicate in constitu- 
tion, and after her marriage she had gradually faded, till at 
length consumption was written on her pallid brow and 
flushed cheek, in unmistakable characters. 

Her kind and indulgent husband, Mr. Cunningham, strove 
by every means in his power to avert the threatened blow. 
By the advice of able physicians, he took her to the sea 
shore, accompanied by the loving Hester, whose gentle min- 
istrations were ever grateful to the languid invalid, in the 
fond hope that the- invigorating breezes might renew the 
wasting strength in her feeble frame. But all failed of the 
desired effect, and she longed to see once more her native 
hills. 

She came home by slow and easy stages, and for a few 
days she rallied, and our hopes were again raised for her 


NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE. 


275 


recovery. Again she sank, and then we knew it was too 
late to hope. We watched her sadly, but at last she said, 
“ I am content to die,” and left her sorrowing husband with 
the care of two motherless babes. While yet in apparent 
health, she had made her peace with God, and we felt that 
now the tired spirit had gone home. 

It has, been said that when Death enters a house, he 
takes care to leave the door upon the latch, that he may be 
able to come in again before the close of the year. Soon 
after our darling Grace was laid in the tomb, we were 
hastily summoned home to see our father for the last time. 
For some years past he had been partly deprived, by 
paralysis, of the power of speech, and, unable longer to per- 
form the arduous labors of the farm; he had spent much time 
at the homes of his married daughters, in whose children he 
took a lively interest. 

He did not, like some aged persons, turn away in disgust 
from all the concerns of life, because no longer able to be a 
prominent actor upon its busy stage. There is sometimes 
a species of self-deception, it is to be feared, in the apparent 
love of solitude, the silence, the seeking of retirement, in 
which to fit for heaven, after the best years have all been 
spent in the service of the world. Is it not often the result 
rather of selfishness and dissatisfaction, an unwillingness to 
see those younger, and possibly less wise and worthy, stand- 
ing in the place once theirs ? My father felt that there 
was still a good which he might perform, though small, not 
unimportant, and in the endeavor he no doubt found a 
reward. He was the consoler of the sick and distressed, 


276 


HOME. 


the friend and instructor of the young, to whom he was 
ever ready to impart, with cheerful kindness, the many 
lessons he had learned by long experience and observation. 
His counsels were bestowed, not chidingly, not with harsh 
reproofs, not in a dictatorial or arrogant manner, but with 
a look and tone that left no room to doubt that his only 
motive was to benefit those whom he addressed. 

Latterly, his increasing infirmities had confined him more 
closely at home, and in our frequent visits we usually found 
him seated in his comfortable arm-chair, with the Bible upon 
his knee, or lying upon the little table beside him ; ever 
cheerful and placid, his face expressing in every lineament 
the peace of heaven. 

At the mournful summons now, we gathered around his 
couch. We were all there. Willy and Royal, now tall, 
athletic youths ; Bessy and Hester, Mary and I ; while 
Rhoda, now almost as lovely as had been our Grace, held 
the hand of the dying man. 

With a blessing for each, spoken in faltering accents, he 
gave us one more look of affection, then closed his eyes, 
and we stood, the living with the dead. 

“ A beauty fair and -deep lies around the hollow eye and 
the sunken cheek, breathed from the calm air of the 
untroubled spirit that has heard, resigned , the voice that 
calls it away from the dim shades of mortality.” 


PARTINGS BY THE WAY. 


277 


CHAPTER XLYII. 

PARTTNGS BY THE WAY. 

“ A shadowy band 

Rise, like remembered music on our ears, 

And vanished hope, whose arch of promise spanned, 

The coming years.” 

It was at about this time that we heard of the death of 
our aunt, Lois Pettys. The elder sister, Aunt Grizzel, had 
some years before paid the debt of nature. She was of a 
full, plethoric habit, and was suddenly carried off by a vio- 
lent congestion on the brain. But the spare frame and 
light, elastic person of Aunt Lois seemed to resist alike the 
encroachments of disease and the infirmities of age. 

After the death of her sister, she confined herself almost 
wholly to the precincts of her antique, and now nearly 
dilapidated, dwelling ; her spectre-like figure scarce waking 
an echo as she wandered, restless and disquieted, through 
the vacant and gloomy apartments, till gradually sinking, 
she faded away like a summer cloud, and died peacefully in 
the arms of her maid, the kind and faithful Sally. 

There were many heirs to their ample and well-hoarded 
property, and at a cold and formal meeting of the distant 
relatives concerned, the sale of the old mansion and its 
.surrounding lands was determined upon, on account of the 
otherwise insuperable difficulties in the way of an amicable 
and equitable distribution of the effects. 


278 


HOME. 


Had the farm, however, been left undivided, a few more 
years would have enhanced tenfold the amount realized, the 
adjacent city having steadily extended street after street, 
until now the ample grounds are occupied by closely-built 
tenements, and the house itself replaced by dwellings of 
more modern structure, and the only glimpse of nature 
afforded is by a trim garden here and there. 

My mother, their niece, received her portion partly, in 
antiquated dresses and household gear ; yet a sufficient 
amount fell to her lot, in more available form, to yield her a 
pretty little income of her own. After the death of my 
father, she took up her residence with her daughter Rhoda. 
The defects of her character, before delineated, were not 
amended by age, but, on the contrary, they were augmented 
by her infirmities and decreased mental vigor ; for if there 
be a lack of proper self-control, and an habitual yielding to 
the impulses of selfish feelings or passions in the prime and 
maturity of life, there will exist little power to curb the 
violence of temper, or to restrain the bent to self-indulgence 
in the waning strength of advancing years. 

The husband of Rhoda, often annoyed and fretted by the 
petulance and meddlesome disposition of his mother-in-law, 
was once heard to declare to one of the family friends that 
the property she had brought into his hands would weigh 
lightly indeed, in comparison with the daily petty vexations 
of her troublesome ways. 

I have as yet hardly spoken of the course of events as 
relating to my two brothers, Willy and Royal, during these 
intervening years, and I will here refer more particularly to 


PARTINGS BY THE WAY. 


*279 


their history. Of Royal, indeed, I can give but few items 
of interest, as he was for many years so separated from 
the rest of his family, that we could know but little of him. 

He had a roving disposition, and a great desire to see the 
world, and left Wayland at an early age, determined, as 
the saying is, to “ seek his fortune.” 

Of course he went first to Boston, and finding a good 
opening in a ship-chandlery, was for a time employed in that 
establishment ; but becoming tired of the drudgery and 
confinement, he soon left the business, and shipped as a com- 
mon seaman on one of the European packet-ships. After 
the vicissitudes common to a seafaring life, but always main- 
taining a character of strict honor and probity, he became 
master of a sloop coasting on our own shores, and acquired 
a comfortable competency. He never married, though 
when, in his later years, he used to visit the homes of his 
brother and sisters, he would often declare that he meant to 
give up going to sea, and settle down as they had done. 
But though upon his first return to the comparative ease 
and quiet of a life upon shore, the contrast gave him delight, 
yet the power of habit was strong, and again and again pre- 
vailed — with his love of the excitement of the sea — to draw 
him away for “just one more trip,” as he would say. 

Poor fellow! the future of which he dreamed never came, 
for, in a violent gale off Cape Hatteras, his vessel was 
wrecked, and he met a watery grave, while yet in the 
strength and vigor of manhood. 

Willy was always a favorite, not only with his partial 
sisters, but with all the young people, as he grew up. He 


280 


HOME. 


bad a quick, ready wit, a jovial and social disposition, and 
was withal a most excellent singer ; in this resembling our 
Mary and Hester, with the latter of whom, as nearest in 
age, he was always most closely associated. 

In those days the cup of exhilarating drink, by which so 
many bright hopes have been laid low, was freely passed at 
every convivial gathering. Willy’s agreeable qualities in 
this, his early youth — that turning period so important, so 
perilous often, before manhood stamps itself upon the 
brow — led him into imminent danger from this cause. A 
round of singing-parties, sleigh-rides, and balls, during the ' 
winters, placed before him temptations frequent and strong. 
My father became exceedingly apprehensive for his safety, 
and added to his prayers faithful counsel and advice, ear- 
nestly striving to disentangle him from the web of the 
destroyer seemingly gathering around him. He sought for 
Willy, too, the added influence of his elder sisters, confiding 
to Bessy and me his fears for the gay young man. Bessy 
wrote him a letter, full of sisterly affection, but strong in its 
warnings and entreaties that he would in time take heed to 
his steps. 

Willy never alluded to the letter, though we knew, that 
he received and read it. I, too, sought and found an oppor- 
tunity, in private, to plead with him his duty to our father 
and to himself, and that the long-cherished hopes so fondly 
placed on him might still be realized. I besought him to 
turn with manly decision from any use of the deadly beve- 
rage so universal then, and so destructive in its effects upon 
every thing good and noble. 


PAKTINGS BY THE WAY. 


281 


These efforts were not in vain. Before unconscious of 
his peril, he now woke in some measure to the insidious 
nature of his dangerous habits ; and when, not long after, 
our revered and beloved father was laid in his last resting- 
place, our dear brother stood forth a man in his strength. 
He was now the representative of him who was gone, the 
stay and support of the diminished household. 

From the jovial, gay, and pleasure-loving young man, 
careless of consequences, seeking no worthy aim in life, he 
stepped forth, as it were, at once, from the influence of his 
merry companions. Standing upon the threshold of active 
life, he entered upon its duties and responsibilities eminently 
fitted for usefulness by true moral worth, joined to his really 
fine mental powers, and above all, by intelligent, devoted 
piety ; for through the rich mercy of God, the loss of an 
earthly father was the means of leading him to an Heavenly 
one, through faith in the Redeemer of men. 

About this time he became acquainted with a beautiful 
girl who had recently come among us, and in a year or two 
after our father’s death he brought her, a lovely bride, to 
our paternal homestead. Alas ! beauty, youth, and love, 
could not avail to shield her from the shafts of disease, and 
in one short year Consumption had secured his prey, and 
deprived her infant son thus early of the priceless blessing 
of a mother’s love. But he was welcomed to a warm heart, 
and was not left to know the full magnitude of his loss. 
Hester, as I have before intimated, had no family ties save 
those connected with her childhood’s home. To Willy she 


282 


HOME. 


had ever been as a guardian angel, and to her care he now 
confided his child. 

She loved the little stranger with a warmth of feeling 
only second to that of a mother, and as he passed from in- 
fancy to youth and manhood, he well repaid her for her care 
and kindness, by his almost filial respect and affection. She 
was soon his only guardian, for our brother never recovered 
his health or spirits after the loss of his beloved companion, 
and at the age of only four years the little Joseph was an 
orphan. 

Thus, again and again, did death visit our household, 
taking from us the darling sister, the loving parent, the 
brother with whom we had enjoyed so much domestic and 
fraternal intercourse, the youthful wife and mother. 

** So star by star declines, 

Till aU are passed away — 

As morning high and higher shines, 

To pure and perfect day. 

Nor sink those stars in endless night, 

But hide themselves in Heaven’s own light.” 

“ Call not the mourner unhappy who lays his dear ones 
below the earth, and returns to the home where their voices 
are to be heard never more. 

u That affliction brings forth feelings unknown before in 
his heart, calming all turbulent thoughts by the settled 
peace of the grave.” 


HOME. 


283 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 


“ The sorrows of others 
Cast their shadow over me.” 

“ It is true, there are shadows as well as lights ; clouds, as well as sunshine ; 
thorns, as well as roses ; but much happiness , after all.” 

Some events in the life of our sister Mary now awakened 
all our sympathy for her and her husband ; for life is made 
up of alternate good and ill fortune, “ clouds as well as sun- 
shine,” and Mary, who had been so severely disciplined in 
her youth, was not without lesser, but very painful anxie- 
ties, in her later marriage. 

On the marriage of his mother with Deacon Dudley, Sam 
Lyman had taken the family homestead, and assumed the 
payment of his sisters* portions. Finding this difficult from 
the slow proceeds of the farm, he sought the more lucrative 
and available profits of trade, and accordingly established 
himself in a store in the flourishing village of Westmead. 
The old farm, once so productive, being left to the manage- 
ment of tenants and hirelings, rapidly diminished in thrifti- 
ness and value, and his mercantile transactions, after some 
years’ trial, proving disastrous, he was forced to return to 
Wayland. For a few years he struggled with debts and 
pecuniary difficulties, extremely embarrassing to his high 
spirit and nice sense of honor ; but he bent his every effort to 


284 


HOME. 


the satisfying of the just demands of his creditors, and though 
his dwelling was for the time being the abode of poverty? 
and his family subjected to many privations, yet he manfully 
persevered in his course of industry and self-denial, until his 
object was attained, and he was again enabled to give them 
the comfort to which they were earlier accustomed. 

Mary’s character shone out brightly during this period. 
She had always the sunshine of hope in her heart, a cheer- 
ful smile on her face, and words of encouragement on her 
lips. She shunned no toil ; she was ever ready to aid her 
husband by doing what was in her power, however unwel- 
come the task. 

I remember a little incident, trifling in itself, but illustra- 
ting the annoyances of this part of my sister’s life. 

She was accustomed frequently to take the grain for the 
family use, herself, to the mill ; and on one of these occa- 
sions — it was a warm, bright day — was slowly tracing the 
road through Yalley Brook to Father Coke’s gristmill, not 
far from my own dwelling. 

She was seated, with old and faded dress, in a rickety 
wagon, partly filled with the bags of grain, when she saw 
approaching, an elegant looking man with a handsome equi- 
page. As he checked his speed, while the jaded and plod- 
ding farm-horse toiled painfully by, she suddenly recognized 
him as William Homer, the dashing beau of her lively girl- 
hood. He stopped short, exclaiming, in his surprise, 

“ Can this be Mary Leland ?” 

Her face flushed, but with a sudden burst of wifely pride, 
she answered, 


285 


HOME. 

“ No, sir ! it is Mrs. Mary Lyman !” 

He looked earnestly at her, with a half sorrowful expres- 
sion, and passed on. 

When my sister came, shortly after, as was her custom, 
to my house, to wait while the miller was performing his 
task, the tears of bitter mortification too plainly showed, as 
she told me of the rencontre, that poverty had thus again 
made her feel keenly the pressure of his iron grasp. But 
she soon recovered her usual equanimity, and, indeed, such 
a yielding to the feelings of wounded pride was a very unu- 
sual occurrence with her. She was by no means unhappy, 
even in her privations, for so steadily did she look at the 
bright side of every circumstance of her lot, that the darker 
shade was in great measure hid from her vision. 

In their five rosy-cheeked little girls, both Mary and her 
husband felt themselves rich indeed, in the midst of their 
pecuniary trials. She used to say to them, in their childish 
perplexities — “ Keep up good heart, girls, nothing comes of 
crying ” — and her husband would add, in his peculiar tone 
of seeming pomposity— “ Yes I be cheerful, my daughters ! 
ever be cheerful ! Cheerfulness is one of the cardinal vir- 
tues !” 

After these many clouds and adverse winds, their evening 
sun shone out bright and clear, and in later years, when 
Mary recounted to her beautiful daughters more of her 
earlier sorrows than even her sisters had ever known, she 
could also point them to a Heavenly Father's guiding hand 
as the constant and hidden source of all her strength. 

They grew up a most lovely family — in the hope and 


■v 


286 HOME. 

brightnes of their youth becoming humble, faithful, devoted 
Christians. Their early experience of privation, toil, and 
self-denial, formed habits of self-reliance, while it nurtured 
in them the germs of all else that is most truly excellent, 
for idleness and self-indulgence not only blunt the powers of 
intellect, but deaden in the heart the better, nobler sympa- 
thies of our nature — “ all the sweet charities of life.” 

In after life, they have proved themselves capable of rising 
above the petty thoughts and aims of inferior minds, of fill- 
ing with dignity exalted stations, or of adorning or elevating 
those more lowly. 


\ 


THE WIDOW. 


287 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE WIDOW. 

“So well is the harp of human feeling strung, that nothing but a crash that 
breaks every thing can wholly mar its harmony.” 

Meantime I bad ma-ny cares and labors, but I accepted 
with cheerfulness the burden laid upon me. Little by little 
the grace and mercy of God roused up in me what I had 
before seemed not to possess, the sense and wisdom to com- 
prehend my arduous duties and responsibilities, and to act 
as the necessity of the case required. 

My husband’s property was entangled with that of his 
father and brothers, and Father Coke urged that the estate 
should be settled without reference to strangers. 

Distillery, carding, saw-mill, and farm, all were at loose 
ends ; my very home was in the hands of my father-in-law, 
for no deed had been given by him. He loved to retain in 
his possession whatever had once been his. There was 
much cupidity and grasping, but it was overruled by my 
kind Heavenly Father, so as even to work to my advantage, 
for it excited an interest and care for me with all my friends 
and neighbors. One man — with whom I had little acquaint- 
ance — self-moved, sought a favorable opportunity of con- 
versing with Father Coke, and obtained from him statements 
which secured the title of my home to me and my children. 


288 


HOME. 


An old Quaker, from a distance, after liberally settling 
his account, inquired of me, “ Does thy rich father-in-law 
deal justly by thee V ’ with so much feeling and kindness in 
his face, that the tears rose to my eyes. 

It had been my desire, from the first, to enter my hus- 
band’s family as a daughter and sister : one with them in 
interest and affection. I had been successful in allaying 
prejudices, and winning their confidence and esteem, and the 
five years of my married life had passed most pleasantly in 
this regard. 

Now, more than ever, was I desirous that the delicate 
matter of settlement, with its complicated business and con- 
flicting interests, might be happily completed, without dis- 
turbing these pleasant relations between us. 

Some two or three years were occupied in adjusting the 
various interests involved in the estate, small as it was ; and 
previous to the final disposition of affairs, a trial came 
which I little expected. 

The Coke family were extremely reluctant to suffer the 
mills to pass out of their hands into the possession of 
strangers : many turns and shifts had been proposed to 
prevent this result, and much discussion of the subject had 
taken place at different times. Father Coke alleged that 
he could not purchase the property of me, because he had 
made recent investments in a new enterprise just commenced 
in the town ; neither were any of the younger brothers able 
to assume such obligation on their own account. 

They accordingly desired me still to retain the property 
in my own possession, subject to their control, proposing to 


THE WIDOW. 


289 


share the proceeds equitably in common. But during the 
past year the mills had been carried on for me by one of the 
brothers, and the profits — before a considerable revenue — 
had been almost wholly absorbed in the management of the 
concern, and I was convinced that the sale of the mills, and 
consequent separation of interests, alone could render the 
late flourishing business of my husband of any avail for our 
support, or, indeed, secure harmony of feeling with all 
parties. 

While these things were in progress, Mother Coke came 
to see me one morning. With Mother Coke, especially, 
I had beeu, since my marriage, on the most kind and cor- 
dial terms. She had many admirable qualities ; she was 
entirely sincere and straight-forward in all her ways, with 
great activity and energy ; ready for any and every work 
of kindness or necessity, and was quite notable in the vari- 
ous appointments of her large household, with its arduous 
duties and labors. Not gifted with the nicer shades of 
feeling or perception, she was yet high-spirited and ambi- 
tious, the aggrandizement of her family being her chief aim. 
It was she who had desired a more wealthy connection for 
her son Charles; but whatever feeling of that kind she 
might once have cherished, had long passed away, 

Her visit at this time surprised me, because, unlike her 
usual short stay, and hasty conference on some domestic 
concern, she sat almost silent for a time, and then entered 
into the discussion of business affairs, in which, indeed, she 
was quite competent, although seldom interposing her 
opinions unasked. She now spoke of the settlement of the 

13 


290 


HOME. 


estate, enlarging upon the fact, that Father Coke had been 
the original sole proprietor of the mill-seats of Talley Brook, 
and wishing they could still all be retained in the family. 

I replied, as I had expressed before, that it would suit me 
well, if Father Coke, or one of the sons, would become the 
owner of the property, paying me as might be convenient, 
to aid in the support of myself and my children. I then 
reminded her that I had as yet received no avails from the 
mills, though they were in good repair and unencumbered. 
She answered, that “ the business had been poorly managed, 
and the dues not promptly collected,” which was true 
enough ; “ but,” said she, with a meaning smile, “ there is a 
way in which you can keep the mills and secure the profits, 
and your children be well provided for. Cannot you guess?” 
continued she, in answer to my questioning look. “You 
and Reuben can make a match of it. He proposed the plan 
to me yesterday. He is anxious for it ; and I will be bold 
to say, if he is my son, that he will make a good husband, 
and be a kind father to the children.” 

I felt as if struck by a sudden blow. 

“Does Reuben know of your speaking to me of this, 
mother ?” said I, the tears filling my eyes and almost chok- 
ing my utterance. 

“ 3STo ; he has gone away to-day, but I thought I would 
tell you about it, so that you might have time to think it 
over before he saw you.” 

The first quick feeling of resentment had passed away, 
and there only remained the wish to annihilate the thought, 
if possible. I hoped Reuben would never come himself upon 


THE WIDOW. 


291 


the errand, and, with more emotion than I would willingly 
have shown, I said, “ Then do not let him know I ever had 
such a thought brought to my mind.” 

Mother Coke seemed much surprised at the feeling I 
betrayed. She had no doubt supposed I should view the 
subject in the same business-like way as herself. Little 
more was said — what, I hardly knew — and she soon took her 
leave. When I was left alone, my tears flowed long and 
unrestrained ; they wrought relief. After the troubled 
waters subsided, my mind became calm, and I sought to 
enter into the feelings — natural enough, perhaps — of Mother 
Coke ; not, indeed, with any less repugnance to the point 
proposed, but that I might fairly and honestly view the mo- 
tives that prompted it — motives of kindness to myself, as 
well as desire for the promotion of the supposed family 
interest. 


292 


HOME. 


CHAPTER L. 

REUBEN COKE. 

Reuben Coke was some years younger than was my 
Charles, and resembled him somewhat in form and features, 
though little in his general bearing. 

Good looking, in truth, he might be deemed, yet he had . 
a sort of stolid air, and a sluggish, heavy manner, too plainly 
marking that the finer and higher attributes of soul were 
wanting — were overborne by the more sensuous qualities, 
or at most by that lower type of intellect which has its com- 
pass and scope centering in self. 

His kindly good nature, steady habits, and honest, up- 
right character, I could value and respect, but a hallowed, 
endeared union with my husband’s brother — with Reuben 
Coke 1 The very idea was odious 1 as discordant as were 
our sympathies and taste, our aims in life, and especially our 
views in reference to the things of religion. 

As the subject recurred to my mind through the day, I 
began to fear I had not been sufficiently explicit with Mother 
Coke to preclude the repetition of the disagreeable topic ; 
nor was I wrong in the apprehension. The next morning I 
had but just dispatched my little son, with his companion 
Energine (of whom more hereafter) off to school, when 
Reuben Coke made his appearance. My brothers-in-law 


REUBEN COKE. 


293 


were familiar guests at my cottage, coming and going with 
entire freedom and without ceremony ; but now Reuben’s 
constrained and hesitating manner left me little difficulty in 
divining that he had come with an unusual errand. I was 
finishing my few household avocations, and nearly ready to 
inspect the contents of my workbasket ; my little ones were 
playing around me in the long family room which opened 
directly upon the small plat of grass separating the house 
from the road. 

My visitor sat for some time saying little, but fondling 
my two little girls, and listening to their prattle. 

After a while he began to speak of the contemplated sale 
of the mills, the disposal of the property, and then of his own 
circumstances and present plans. Full of his own thoughts 
and wishes, and seemingly unconscious of all else, he rose 
and stalked backwards and forwards across the room, appa- 
rently intent on seeking the most fitting way to unfold the 
purpose of his visit. There were some long poles suspended 
from hooks near the ceiling at the top of the room, on 
which were hung some strings of apples and sundry long 
strips of pumpkin, in process of drying for winter use. Reu- 
ben, as he rose from his chair, had donned his high, bell- 
crowned hat, and this just reaching up to the drying apples 
and pumpkins, at each turn dislogded some of the pendant 
fruit, and brought it to the floor as he paced up and down 
the long room. I picked them up successively, till all the 
hanging contents of the poles were at length transferred to 
the table at the side of the room. He was wholly uncon- 
scious of what he was doing, and T was myself too much 


294 : 


HOME. 


engrossed by the unpleasant topic of our conversation to pay 
much note at the time to the ludicrous performance or to 
the fate of my goods' ; but afterwards I laughed heartily at 
sight of the confused heap of dried edibles which burdened 
the table. 

At length our painful interview was ended ; and let me 
do him the justice to say that, in all sincerity — and he was 
incapable of dealing otherwise — he did not propose a union 
and offer his hand as a convenient joining of interests 
merely, or as a sordid scheme for the securing of a mutual 
advantage ; but he told me in his own plain, blunt manner, 
that he “ was sur.e he should like me better for a wife than 
any one else he knew” — that “ I. had long stood very high 
with him.” On my side, I endeavored to meet him on his 
own ground, treating the subject in a sincere and very prac- 
tical way. I tried to show him the undesirableness of such 
a connection on various grounds, and succeeded in making 
clear to his mind the utter impossibility of my acceding to 
his plan ; softening my decisive assertions, from regard to 
his feelings, as much as I could consistently with perfect sin- 
cerity and my determination not to be misunderstood. 

He displayed no anger, nor, indeed, much emotion pf any 
kind, beyond his first embarrassment. The subject was 
dropped, and the trifling constraint and unpleasant feeling 
arising from it soon passed away. The mills were sold, and 
all our affairs were amicably settled, with the continued 
kindness of the family, who were ever after ready to aid me 
in every emergency, especially showing the greatest tender- 
ness for my fatherless little ones. 


THE HEIRESS. 


295 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE HEIRESS. 


“ Fy ! let’s a’ to the wedding !” 

Old So no. 

“ She is so young, my son 1” 

“Yes, mother, but she is so pretty !” 

“ She knoweth not how to do work, or to guide the house, or to leave off her 
girlish plays !” 

“ Yes, mother ! but she sings so sweetly, and laughs so merrily, I know you will 
like her !” 

“ You think every one must like her, because you do ; but I fear me ! I fear me I” 

“ Well, mother— but she is rich !” 

“ Is she rich? Art sure of that? Well, well 1 my son I have thine own way \ I 
dare say she will learn to be a very proper wife !” 

Old Plat. 


Shortly after the visit above described, ray brother-in- 
law, Reuben, was abundantly consoled by a sudden turn of 
fortune, by means of which a lucky prize, apparently, was 
thrown into his hands in the person of a romantic girl, both 
pretty and rich, not yet- quite out of her teens, who came 
with her invalid mother to Wayland, and was spending some 
time with an aunt. Reuben first met her by accident, and 
the pretty, innocent-looking face, and frank school-girl man- 
ners of the young lady, solicitous to please, at once fasci- 
nated his simple, honest heart. His courtship sped well, for 
the managing aunt — our old acquaintance, Mrs. Holding — 
thought the son of the rich Mr. Coke no bad match for her 
niece, now just from boarding-school, and ready to make her 


296 _ home. 

fortune m tne world. The young lady herself was by no 
means averse to the so devoted attentions of a veritable 
lover — her first conquest. I first heard of the matter from 
Mother Coke ; she- came over with her knitting — a rare 
occurrence — to sit with me one afternoon. “ Have you 
heard any reports about Reuben ?” asked she, thus intro- 
ducing the subject. I replied that I had not. “Haven’t 
yon heard of the Widow Lovell and her daughter ? The 
mother is a sister of Mr. Golding. She has come to stay 
there awhile for her health.” 

I was quite ignorant of the existence of any such persons. 
She continued : “ Her husband died two years ago, and left 
her a large property. There is only one child ; her name 
is Angeline. She has just finished her education, and is 
handsome as a doll, and a real heiress.” 

“ And what about Reuben ?” said I, beginning to guess 
at the drift of affairs. 

“ Why, he has begun to pay his addresses, and we think 
it will be a match,” she replied. 

“ The mother or the daughter ?” I half mischievously 
asked. 

“Oh, the daughter, to be sure ! the mother is always 
sick, and the most notional person you ever saw ; but 
Angeline is a very pretty girl. Reuben will not try for’ a 
widow again,” she added, with a peculiar smile. 

I told her I was very glad — as, of course, I was most 
sincerely so — to hear of Reuben’s good fortune ; hoping the 
youthful “heiress” would prove a fitting companion for 
him. The circumstance of her reputed wealth touched the 


THE HEIRESS. 


weak point with Mother Coke, and she was highly gratified 
with the golden prospects of her son. 

Angeline Lovell was indeed pretty and interesting as a 
young miss, “ but half a woman, half a child.” She gave 
her consent for an early day, and became a wife, thinking, 
no- doubt, far more of lovers’ vows and. bridal favors, than 
of future cares, duties, or responsibilities. I looked upon 
my new sister with a feeling of sympathy almost akin to 
pity, light-hearted and pretty as she was ; for I saw in her 
a character at once weak and immature, which greatly 
needed the development of careful culture, and earnest, 
serious preparation for the humble and prosy, yet indispen- 
sable occupations of every-day life. She might thus have 
been fitted to bear her burdens easily, and might have 
passed smoothly along on the common current, filling her 
place usefully, and with happiness to herself and others. 

Poorly adapted, as she really was, to the practical duties ' 
and homely cares devolving upon a wife and the mistress of a 
family, her temper, naturally amiable (so far as it could be 
said to have any character at all), became peevish and 
irritable. Her health failed, and she grew nervous and 
weak-spirited. She lacked both energy and capacity to 
manage her household, and everything suffered neglect and 
went to decay. 

Little by little their comfortable property wasted away. 
Her husband, never very enterprising or active, grew dis- 
pirited and indolent, until he who had married the “ heiress” 
became the poorest of the family. Hot only destitute of 
outward means of comfort, they were poor in health, poor 

13 * 


298 


HOME. 


in a spirit of, active exertion, and poor in hope for the 
future — theirs was poverty indeed ! 

I have before alluded to the investments of Father Coke 
which had employed his available funds in a new enterprise 
As these outlays were the means of some important and 
disastrous results, -I will explain them more fully. Olive 
Coke — the one nearest in age to my Charles, and a very 
dear sister to him — had married a physician, Dr. Blake, 
one of those restless men always full of schemes and new 
enterprises. Olive herself was a gentle, loving girl. I had 
often heard my husbai;d say that amid all the faults and 
follies of childhood, or the waywardness of youth, he could' 
not recollect a single instance of disagreement between 
them. This endeared her to me, as well as her own loveli- 
ness and excellence. Her husband was beginning to secure 
a good practice, but was not contented with his slow gains, 
and at length started the plan of a glass factory, which he 
declared would soon raise the quiet and obscure town of 
Wayland into a village of some importance, boasting at 
least one branch of flourishing business. 

As usual, he entered upon his project with the utmost 
zeal, and pursued it with unremitting ardor and activity, 
inspiring many of the staid people of Wayland with a por- 
tion of his own confidence and enthusiasm. Money was 
invested with large hopes of success, and the flattering pro- 
mise of liberal returns. Fortunes were to be made in a day 
by taking shares in the new enterprise of glass-making. 

No one, save the originator of the scheme, Dr. Blake, en- 
listed in it more warmly, or invested more largely than Fa- 


THE HEIRESS. 


299 


tker Coke. There was an auspicious commencement, and 
for a time all went on swimmingly ; but a few brief months 
of actual experiment conducted the too sanguine projectors 
to utter failure, as might have been predicted from their 
total want of experience in the business, and the difficulty 
of procuring competent workmen. Father Coke’s loss was 
several thousands, and Dr. Blake’s little all was swallowed 
up. He soon after removed to the State of Hew York. 
This separation of our dear Olive from her friends was a 
very s^d one to us all. They were going in utter poverty 
to encounter the hardships of a new region then little known, 
with two little girls, the eldest not yet three years old. 

But Dr. Blake soon, fortunately, found a good location 
near the pleasant town of Kingston, on the Hudson, where, 
rendered wise by experience, he steadily practised his pro- 
fession, and in time gained a competency, and was able to 
surround his now large and flourishing family not only with 
comfort, but with all the appliances and refinements of do- 
mestic and social life. 

Father Coke could not be reconciled to the disastrous 
issue of his unfortunate speculation. He was deeply morti- 
fied that he had so foolishly adventured his carefully-kept 
gains, and was perpetually bemoaning his loss, wandering 
at his rashness and the blindness which could not have fore- 
seen the result. His health began to suffer through the 
uneasiness of his mind, and he became so ill as to be unable 
for some weeks to attend to his ordinary business, but sat 
silent and gloomy, brooding over his misfortune. 

His sons, who at first had been quite cast down by the 


300 


HOME. 


loss of the property, began to be still more troubled tnat 
their father took it so much to heart. Mother Coke endea- 
vored to divert his mind by company and visits, hoping that 
by free converse with his friends and neighbors his thoughts 
might revert to their accustomed channels, so that he. might 
find interest as usual in his various plans of business ; for he 
was by no means a ruined man in worldly affairs, but pos- 
sessed still a very considerable property. He consented one 
day to visit with her a family living some three or four miles 
distant. It was near the last of February. The snow was 
deep and gently falling, though the day was mild. Father 
Coke seemed in tolerable spirits and conversed with some 
cheerfulness ; but scarcely had they proceeded more than a 
mile, just as they were entering the deep gorge at the foot 
of Pine Mountain, he appeared to be faint, the slackened 
reins dropped from his hands, and he leaned heavily against 
his wife. She quickly turned the horse about, to return 
home, speaking to him meanwhile and seeking to revive 
. him ; but in vain — he was dead ! 

Without a moment’s warning, in the sleigh alone with his 
wife, on the highway, his spirit had taken its flight, his soul 
passed for ever away from scenes of earth. 

In indescribable terror and agony of mind, Mother Coke 
supporting the lifeless body of her husband, herself drove 
home in the quickest possible time, each moment seeming an 
hour ! When I arrived at the scene of distress the dead 
husband and father lay on his bed with overcoat and boots 
still on ; his children were weeping around, in all the confu- 
sion and dismay of sudden grief ; the stout young men, the 


THE HEIRESS. 


301 


grown-up daughters, sobbing unrestrained as the utter hope- 
lessness of restoration became evident. It was, indeed, a 
most mournful spectacle ! — to me most solemn and affect- 
ing. What now to him who was gone were all the trifling 
concerns of earth ! Where was now that spirit so wrapped 
up in the interests of the world, so suddenly ushered, naked, 
into another sphere, poor indeed, without other and more 
enduring riches 1 


302 


HOME. 


* 


CHAPTER LII. 

LITTLE HELPS. 

After the sale of the mills, the income of my farm, 
increased by my own exertions in different ways, afforded 
us a frugal living, while the care and training of my dear 
children was my great concern and object. 

Soon after my marriage, we had received a little orphan 
girl in charge to bring up, named Energine, of whom a more 
particular account will be given in a subsequent chapter. 
She was soon able to assist me in various ways, and well did 
she afterwards repay my care, by a devoted affection on her 
part scarce ever exceeded by a daughter. 

As time wore on, my little Charles, too, became able to 
help. He was a strong, manly little fellow, very capable 
for his age, and many a time I have, with a fearful heart, 
sent him to perform labors well fitting the strength and 
judgment of a lad of twice his years. 

In the pasture were many fine chestnut trees, and when 
the frosty nights of autumn had begun to scatter their 
fruit, I would go with the children to gather the brown 
nuts, that their avails might procure for us some needed 
little comforts. 

My stout, active bOy — a mere Lilliput in stature — would 
climb the tree, venturing out to utmost limb, while Ener- 
gine and I stood with a spread sheet to catcli the nuts as 


LITTLE HELPS. 


303 


they fell ; my two little girls meanwhile filling their tiny 
baskets, and thinking it rare sport. 

We had, too, a fine plantation of sugar maples, at some 
distance from the house, high up on the hill-side ; this also 
was made a source of profit. 

First, a man’s services were requisite to “tap” the trees 
and prepare the vessels for receiving the sap ; then, in the 
keen, bright March days, Energine and my trusty Charles 
would be dispatched to empty the sap-troughs, and to 
kindle a fire under the kettle for boiling. 

The rude fire-place was ready made, and seemed one of 
nature’s freaks. A large layer of rock, smooth and level, 
projected horizontally, resting upon a smaller ledge for sup- 
port, while at the extreme end of this natural floor two 
similar ledges lay transversely against the steep hill-side, 
leaving just space enough for a large kettle to be suspended. 
Above the whole were two or three birch trees and other 
shrubbery’ forming a shelter somewhat from the winds. 
Here the sap was boiled, the two children watching and 
tending it day after day, while I repaired frequently to the 
spot to overlook them in their labors. 

I remember one day in particular, when Energine was 
gone to stay with a sick neighbor, and Charles was tending 
alone upon the hill — he may have been nine or ten years 
old — I had been very busy in the house, and had not visited 
the scene of operations that day, but had sent my youngest 
girl, a child of about six years, with a warm bit for her 
brother’s dinner, and permission for herself to stay with him 
through the afternoon. 


304 


HOME. 


It grew late, and the children did not come home ; but I 
knew my little son would stay to ever so late an hour, if 
the boiling syrup was at a point unfavorable to leave ; for 
it was his way to finish whatever he undertook before leaving, 
if it was possible to do so. 

As night shut in, cloudy and dark, I provided myself 
with a lantern and proceeded to the place. 

Ascending the hill in part by the road, I entered the 
pasture by a narrow path, and passed through it. Then 
crossing a small rivulet, I began 4o climb the steep ascent, 
and soon perceived the fire lighting up the rocks, the bare 
trees, and patches of snow beyond, and I saw the little 
forms of my children flitting back and forth before it. 

Keeping carefully in the shadow, I gained the further 
side of the ledge, concealing my light under my cloak, and 
stopped near a large stump, a rod or two from them, to see 
whether they would observe me. My little Anna was 
capering from side to side of the rude floor, calling it her 
house, and full of lively talk and play, as was her wont. 

It was not long before her notice was attracted to my 
dark, still figure, and she said to her brother, “ What is it 
that looks so much like a black man standing out there ?” 

He scarcely looked up at first, so busy was he in replen- 
ishing his glowing fire with brushwood, or adding sap to 
the boiling liquor in small quantities to temper its heat, his 
thoughtful young face showing in the firelight that his whole 
mind was absorbed by his trust. 

My little girl kept uneasily watching me, and when at 
last I opened the folds of my cloak a little, so as to suffer 


LITTLE HELPS. 


305 


the light to shine around me, she became really alarmed, 
and urgently called her brother’s attention. 

“Oh!” said he, after a moment’s scrutiny, “perhaps 
there is a little snow on that stump that makes it look 
light.” 

But, not satisfied with his own explanation, he continued 
to look, and at length descended his platform of rock for a 
nearer examination. His sister cried out, “ Don’t go ! 
Charles ! don’t go !” but the brave little fellow approached, 
and fairly touched, before he recognized me. 

“ I meant to know what it was,” said he, when I asked 
him why he came to me ; “ but, mother, why didn’t you 
come and let us know you were here ?” 

“I wanted to see how much courage you had,” I an- 
swered, “ and to see how you were at work here all alone.” 

Great was the joy to see “ mother” in the dark and lone- 
liness, and soon, putting out the fire, we wended our way 
home, and I, with a happy and a thankful heart, laid down 
to rest beside my tired children. 

In simple pleasures like these, and in the cheerful perform- 
ance of the little duties that filled up the course of my 
retired life, I found a quiet comfort, and even joy, seldom 
realized in- a more brilliant and showy sphere, and which 
could hardly be imagined by those whose whole existence 
has been spent in the “giddy round” of amusement and 
festivity. 


306 


HOME. 


CHAPTER L 1 1 1 . 

PINE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE. 

“ What mournful tragedies are ever around us, flowing on unseen, with the per- 
petual under-current of human life, each hour laden with mystery and sorrows, 
with floating wrecks, we see, but cannot snatch from the darkening tide.” 

« A little child 
That lightly draws its breath, 

That feels its life in every limb, 

What can it know of death?” 

The history of my own branch of “ onr family ” would be 
quite incomplete, did I fail to say something more of my 
little orphan Energine. Her origin and subsequent varied 
life might form the basis of a most romantic tale, could it 
be skillfully delineated in the delicate and fanciful style of 
some imaginative writer. But a more plain and prosaic 
account must suffice the less favored readers of my humble 
story. Energine’s parents removed to .Wayland a short 
time before her birth, and with their little son of four years, 
lived in a house belonging to farmer Gibbs — a little brown 
cottage standing just at the foot of Pine Mountain. The 
thick chestnut grove which almost surrounded the base of 
the mountain, cast a deep shade upon the roof, and gave the 
dwelling an air of seclusion — almost of gloom. There was 
a mystery about Mr and Mrs. Harlow, for that was the 
name of these people, which, while it served to keep their 


PINE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE. 


307 


neighbors from any great degree of familiarity with them, 
rendered them the more frequent subjects of conversation 
and conjecture. They had arrived by stage, and, as the 

driver affirmed, from “ York city,” and after a few days’ 

/ 

stay at the village tavern, they quietly sought a home in 
the obscure dwelling of Mr. Gibbs. 

Little was known of them even after some intercourse had 
worn off their first reserve. 

There were some marvellous stories told of rich dresses in 
their trunks, of which, now and then, a sight had been ob- 
tained ; of some trinkets of value in a little box of rare and 
antique workmanship, Which stood upon the little table in 
their bed-room ; but beyond these glimpses of former wealth, 
and the shrewd guesses to which they gave rise, nothing was 
apparent of their past history. None could fail to observe 
the contrast, however, between the delicacy and refinement 
of manner and language of Mrs. Harlow and the blunt good 
humor of her husband ; but all saw that there existed be- 
tween them the most perfect, confiding affection, and that 
each was to the other a whole world in one. In a country 
town each person is individualized, and the history, thoughts, 
and opinions, of each, become, in some sort, the property 
of all. 

A tax is levied upon the social, moral, and intellectual 
wealth of every member of the little community, that thereby 
the whole may be mentally and socially enriched and grati- 
fied. They who are totally unwilling to contribute to this 
tax should not attempt to live in the country. 

Those larger objects — those topics of general interest and 


308 


HOME. 


excitement which occupy the thoughts and attention of city 
neighbors, sufficing to employ the activity of their minds, 
cannot, in the nature of things, be removed to the country 
town ; while there the same activity and curiosity will find 
its aliment in the doings and sayings of associates and 
friends. 

But to return to my story. Mr. and Mrs. Harlow gra- 
- dually won upon the confidence and respect of their neigh- 
bors ; but it was very evident that Mrs. Harlow was unac- 
customed to the primitive habits of a retired country life, 
and though she strove to accommodate herself to them, so 
as not to appear singular, yet it could plainly be seen that 
many things which to others were only trifling inconveniences 
were to her real hardships and privations ; and though the 
tender care of her husband left no room to doubt that in her 
marriage she had found all she expected, it was still easy to 
see that some secret and weighty sorrow pressed down her 
spirit, and at times left the traces of tears upon her pale 
cheeks. 

It was not long after the birth of Energine, that her 
health began to fail, and after lingering two or three years, 
it became apparent to all around her that she must die. 
Still she clung to life, and, day by day, cherished every faint 
and flattering hope, 

Kind Mrs. Gibbs besought her to write to her friends, 
£>ut she always declined with a quiet dignity which effectu- 
ally forbade inquisitive remarks. 

But she grew weaker and weaker, and one morning, after 
a severe paroxysm of pain, she requested pen and paper, and 


PINE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE. 


309 


with some difficulty wrote a few lines and gave the note to 
her husband ; he added a brief postscript, and the letter 
was sent. In a few days, a carriage stopped at the gate 
before the little brown house, from which alighted a lady 
richly dressed, and of most haughty bearing, accompanied 
by a gentleman as stately and haughty as herself. It 
was the sister of Mrs. Harlow, with her husband. They 
arrived only in time to see the poor sufferer breathe her 
last — too late for recognition or word. The sad event ap- 
peared to give them but little pain or concern ; on the con- 
trary, they appeared desirous that the funeral preparations 
should be hastened, that they might immediately return 
home. But a startling and mournful event awaited them. 
While Mr. Harlow was, next morning, caring for the wants 
of their mettlesome horses, a sudden kick from one of them, 
as he was stooping down, felled him to the ground, and he 
was carried into the house a corpse ! At first, even this 
appeared to produce but slight effect upon the proud, un- 
feeling lady ; but when she went to view the bodies dressed 
in the habiliments of the grave, and lying side by side in 
their last slumbers, the icy fountain at last gave way, and 
she gazed long, and with bitter tears, on the pale, cold faces 
before her. Ho word was spoken, until after some moments, 
by a strong effort controlling her emotion, she wiped the un- 
bidden tears, resumed her proud look, and coldly remarked 
to her husband, 

“ My sister was handsome, but he was a very common 
man.” 


810 


HOME. 


Alas ! for the evil in the human heart ! The presence 
of death itself cannot check its pride nor soften its hate ! 

The two who had manifested the most tender attachment 
in life, were not separated in death, but Were buried in the 
same grave. Ah ! many a bereaved mourner has craved 
that blessing, to whom it nas yet been in mercy denied ! 
Their children, the little George and Energine, were now, 
indeed, objects of compassion — orphans at so early an age, 
and with no friends, as it soon appeared. The brother-in- 
law, after ascertaining that there was nothing left which 
would maintain the children, declared he should do nothing 
for them ; a decision in which his wife fully acquiesced. 
Giving to Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs a small sum of money, they 
recommended them to have the two orphans placed in good 
families, if such could be found to receive them, and then 
take for their trouble whatever was left in the cottage.. 
Thus summarily disposing of affairs to their own satisfac- ' 
tion, the haughty couple again entered their elegant car- 
riage and drove off. 


THE OKPHAN. 


311 


CHAPTER L1Y. 

THE ORPHAN. 


“ But is it not a happy thing, 

All fetterless and free, 

Like any wild bird on the wing, 

To carol merrily.” 

“ God ! who gavest 
Into my guiding hand this wanderer. 

To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 
To bring her to the gates of heaven alone 1 
I feel my feebleness.” 


The just indignation of the people was at once excited 
at such unblushing outrage of the commonest feelings of 
nature, and it was soon resolved that the children should 
be befriended by their neighbors, since thus cast off by 
their unfeeling relatives. Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, having no 
children of their own, adopted the boy, who afterwards 
studied the profession of law, and practised successfully as 
an attorney for many years. 

After some hesitation and reluctance, lest I should fail 
in so weighty a task (for my husband left the decision of 
the matter entirely to me), I acceded to the urgent solicita- 
tion of the selectmen of the town, and the little girl became 
an inmate of our family. The relatives never appeared in 
Wayland again, and I soon came to regard the little stran- 


312 


HOME. 


ger with much affection. She was a child of excellent dis- 
position, though somewhat peculiar in temperament ; always 
kind and loving to my own little ones — all younger than her- 
self — and most affectionate to me, there was yet wanting in 
her mental constitution a balance-wheel, a regulator, ren- 
dering her liable to great extremes in her feelings. Some- 
times exalted to a high pitch of perfect good humor and 
gaiety, she would, perhaps, the next hour be cast down, 
dissatisfied • and sad, with no apparent cause sufficient to 
account for the change. This wavering tendency caused me 
no little trouble and anxiety for her. I constantly strove 
to cultivate in her a more equable and placid disposition, 
though with but partial success. Yet she rarely failed to 
engage the kindly interest of those who knew her intimately 
and saw the really good impulses of her heart ; while the 
clear brunette of her complexion, the bloom of her red 
cheeks, and her twinkling black eyes, lighted up with liveli- 
ness and joyful good temper, made her by no means unat- 
tractive to strangers. 

To myself she became very dear, though my patience was 
often sorely tried with her fitful waywardness through the 
years of childhood and youth. I instructed her, to the best 
of my ability, in the usual avocations of household labors, 
in most branches of which she became quite expert, though 
there were some few specialities to which she took and ever 
retained a most unaccountable dislike ; such, for instance, 
was the making of a bed, and also the suitable preparation 
of some of the most common articles of daily food, I was 
never able to teach her, with my most patient and persever- 


THE ORPHAN. 


313 


ing efforts. These peculiarities annoyed me exceedingly, 
until I fully made up my mind that they were idiosyncrasies 
which I could never overcome, and, with this conclusion, I 
gave up the useless endeavor. At the district school, to 
which she was regularly sent, she was always esteemed a 
bright and apt scholar ; but here, too, the peculiarities of 
her mind and disposition manifested themselves in various 
ways. While she loved her book, and was usually prompt 
with her lessons in the branches there taught, there 
was this single and marked • exception : she could never 
be persuaded nor compelled to pursue the study of arith- 
metic beyond the four simple rules. Not only did she 
evince an unconquerable dislike to the study, it seemed 
utterly impossible for her to attain a distinct comprehension 
even of its plainest principles. Many a time did she come 
home from school at night full of grief, and shedding floods 
of tears, at the reproofs and the severities, sometimes, of 
teachers who had striven to overcome this strange aversion 
and determination. 

They always strove in vain ; for, after all her grief and 
tears, and my own persuasions and arguments — for in this 
thing I never resorted to commands — her repugnance was 
still strong as ever ; and after a few such efforts, the victory 
was reluctantly yielded to her invincible will, and her equally 
evident incapacity. 

To add and subtract, to multiply and divide, was all, she 
used to insist, when she was older, that a woman need ever 
know of numbers ; and why then puzzle her brain and tax 
her memory with the complicated and practically useless 

14 


314 


HOMF. 


rules requiring a deeper mathematical insight than sae ei^ner 
possessed or desired ? To all practical intents, the whole of 
her arithmetical skill consisted in counting ; what she could 
see and handle she could count ; but I accidentally over- 
heard a childish conversation between her and my little son, 
which will illustrate how deficient she was in some of the 
most common mental processes. 

Charles said, “ Enna, how many are sixteen and four ?” 

“ Sixteen and four what ?” said Enna.’ 

“ Why, sixteen and four any thing ; just the figures.” 

“‘Just the figures ’ don’t mean anything, Charles. I 
don’t know, without you tell me what it is that you are 
counting.” 

“ Why, yes, Enna ! sixteen and four beans will make just 
as many as sixteen and four apples will.” 

“ Oh ! now I can tell, because you said apples' and beans, 
and I know just how they would look on the table ; but 
when you said only the figures, I can’t think of them any- 
where. It’s — (stopping a long minute to count to herself) — 
it’s twenty apples, Charles ; and (stopping again to count 
carefully) its twenty beans too.” 

“Well, it’s twenty anything,” persisted Charles; “six- 
teen and four are twenty, of course.” 

But Enna looked bewildered, and for the hundredth time 
repeating her exclamation, “ I dbn’t like figures,” turned 
away to some more congenial employment. 

The dullness and dislike of the little girl to his own favo 
rite study, were as marvelous to Charles as were his skill 
and absorption in his intricacies to the mind of Energine, and 


THE ORPHAN. 


315 


the mystery of their contrasting capacities and likings might 
have puzzled older and wiser heads than theirs. 

But who shall measure or curb the windings or eccentri- 
cities of mind ? Who assign its bounds or decree its com- 
pass ? W§ see one individual gifted in a remarkable degree 
with some one faculty — is it greater wonder that to another 
the same faculty is almost wholly denied ? Much may be 
done by cultivation and education ’ we know, but if there be 
an entire lack of mental aptitude, it is in vain for man to 
attempt its creation. 

It was not alone in the particulars I have mentioned, that 
Energine was so different from many children of her age as 
that she was always spoken of by my neighbors in that 
phrase of so indefinite significance — “a peculiar child 
Though by no means bold and forward, she was yet fearless, 
and her quick sense of the ludicrous, led her many times to 
discover great amusement in the very occurrence which to 
other children would have been the occasion of fright and 
alarm. 

, When she was not five years old, I was ill one day, and 
while by chance alone with the child, I suddenly fainted and 
fell to the floor. It was probably but a few seconds before 
consciousness returned, and as I raised my dizzy head and 
opened my eyes, I saw her, instead of crying with fear and 
apprehension, as many children would have done, dancing, 
skipping, and laughing, and with childish glee repeat- 
ing; 

“ You fell down, didn’t you Ma’ T You fell down 1” 

She had many little winning, childish ways, but withal 


316 


HOME. 


was so capricious in her wayward whims, that one could 
never tell what she might do next. 

One cold November morning, I recollect, we rose early, 
long before the grey dawn, when nothing would pacify her, 
but she must follow a sudden caprice, to go to tjie orchard 
to get some late sweet apples to eat. So off she went alone, 
in the dark, frosty morning, and returning with hands and 
apron full, called loudly at the door, 

“ Ugh ! Ugh ! Cold as a frog 1 Cold as a frog ! Ugh ! 
Ugh ! Cold as a frog 1” 

And her aching fingers taught her for the time, better 
than my words could have done, the folly of yielding to such 
unseasonable impulses. 

She had a faculty of handling everything with the tips of 
her little taper fingers with a most dainty touch, and of hop- 
ping about from place to place like a little bird, and almost 
as blithely and as free. 

Bright, gay colors, too, were her especial admiration ; 
she delighted to deck her hair fantastically with blossoms, 
marking the different effect of her varied embellishments by . 
watching my countenance as she came to display her rustic 
adornings, for, in truth, I must say, that vanity was early 
one of the prominent characteristics of my little Energine, 
and the love of admiration almost a ruling passion. 

She possessed a ready tact at reading the . opinions of 
others, which in later years contributed not a little to gain 
for her the popularity she craved. Blending with a quick, 
intuitive sympathy, it led her to be readily interested in 
whatever occupied the mind of a companion. 


THE ORPHAN. ' 


317 


I used sometimes to fancy that she was so absorbed in 
the thoughts and feelings of others that she had none of her 
own, excepting as thus derived. 

A nature gifted with sympathies so spontaneous, could 
not be selfish, and she was ever ready to yield whatever she 
possessed or preferred to the importunate request of a 
schoolmate — sometimes to my great inconvenience. 

Such was the child thus entrusted to my care and train- 
ing. A gentle, fragile plant, seemingly ill calculated to 
withstand the storms of adversity, yet ever bending grace- 
fully before the blast, and gaily rising again in the return- 
ing sunshine. 

“ Heaven bless thee, little flower l I prize thee more 
Than all the pride of female stateliness.” 


318 


HOME. 


CHAPTER LV. 

A FAYRE GIRL, WITH A CHANGEFULLE SPIRIT.” 


“She who neither dazzles by her genius, nor much enlightens by her philosophy, 
does what neither wisdom nor genius always succeed in doing — wins hearts. 


When Energine was sixteen, I began to consider seri- 
ously the necessity of her acquiring, by some means, more 
practical views of life, and more actual preparations for its 
coming realities. TJp to this time she had been but a gay, 
light-hearted child, sometimes saddened, indeed, by her own 
imaginary sorrows, but none the better prepared by these 
for the weightier cares of womanhood. 

She had always wrought at our household labors, as a 
matter of course, and she had always received the supply of 
her wants as to food, clothing, and all necessary comforts, 
equally, as a matter of course. 

After much thought upon the matter, I concluded to 
place her for a time in some good family where she would 
be expected to labor, and to look only to herself for the care 
of herself, and thus the qualities she lacked might be de- 
veloped by necessity.- Yet, though I had determined upon 
this plan, I still deferred the acting upon it, dreading the 
day which would send her from my own fireside to the less 
loving home of strangers. I looked around among my 
friends, to see where I could assure myself she would find 


A FAYRE GIRL WITH A CHANGEFULLE SPIRIT. 319 

the tenderness, the firmness, and the consideration which 
her young and undeveloped nature demanded ; where, with 
wholesome restraint, might yet be mingled cheerfulness and 
moderate indulgence. 

After some delay, I was so happy as to secure for her a 
place, possessing in good degree these requisites, in the 
household of Samuel Dudley, the husband of Mary Lyman, 
as mentioned in a former chapter. 

I took my children and went with Energine to her new 
home, that, by the social chat of a friendly visit, the change 
might be made less painfully to myself. The house was one 
of some elegance, in the busy street of the flourishing village 
of Dudley ville. A broad, green slope, with a wide path in 
its centre, was in front, and a large shaggy dog, lying upon 
the step, gave notice, by a surly growl, of our approach. 
My old friend Mary met us with a cordial welcome. Our 
girlish acquaintance had been in a measure kept up by occa- 
sional visits, as we lived only four miles apart, and she had 
always taken an affectionate interest in Energine, as well as 
in my own children, especially since my sad bereavement. 

Energine, always animated and elated in new scenes, 
behaved her prettiest ; and I could easily see that she was 
likely to find favor with all the family. 

The father and mother of Mr. Dudley lived with them, 
and though Mary was nominally and really the mistress, 
the more imperious and dictatorial Madam Dudlqy was sure 
to exert a felt sway upon the household, and I was gratified 
to observe the kindness and evident partiality with which 
she already regarded my foster-child. 


320 


HOME. 


My little Anna was delighted with all she saw at the 
Dudleys’. The large, wide hall, and spacious rooms, quite 
impressed her with their superiority to the smaller, but 
comfortable house in which we lived ; and I have often 
recurred, with no small amusement, tp her serious exclama- 
tion, as we came again to the brow of the hill overlooking 
our own home — “ There is our humble cottage !” 

Here Energine lived two years. "Her exuberant spirits, 
with her good looks, and a ready and pleasant humor ever 
peeping out in a witty repartee, carried with them a sort 
of fascination which made her a favorite with all ; and the 
more particular preference of my friend’s only son was 
beginning to make itself manifest, when it was discovered 
by the quick eye of his grandmother. 

The old lady — the reigning impulse of her life not a whit 
abated by any subduing influence of growing age — could 
not willingly think of the possibility of a maraage, even in 
the third generation, which would bring no wealth to her 
own side of the house. She found means, soon after becom- 
ing aware of the incipient liking of her grandson for my 
pretty Energine, to persuade Mary to dismiss her. 

By ingenious questionings, the ambitious and meddlesome 
woman assured herself, before she left, that Energine had 
attached no particular importance in her own mind to the 
young man’s attentions, and wisely forbore to enlighten her 
upon the point, though the proof was plain to her own wary 
observation. She probably thought, by sending Energine 
out of the way, and exerting a counter influence upon the 
mind of the youth, the danger might be seasonably arrested. 


A FAYRE GIRL WITH A CHANGEFULLE SPIRIT. 321 

Energine came again to me, and spent the ensuing winter 
at home, attending the school near by. For a while Mr. 
Samuel — for he too had inherited from his father and grand" 
father the same good Scripture name — was a pretty frequent 
visitor. But he met with no very decided encouragement, 
and his calls becoming less and less frequent, at length 
ceased entirely. 

Energine laughed and joked as gaily as ever — her heart 
had not been touched — and she had no lack of admiring 
attendants, though not always such as I could desire or 
approve. 


322 


HOME. 


CHAPTER LYI. 

TRUST. 


“ And may not I, by Heaven’s kind mercy aided, 
Weak as I am, with some good courage bear 
What is appointed for me?” 


I felt much solicitude at this time about Energine. Her 
grace and attractions, her dependent situation, added to the 
native deficiencies of her mind and character, exposed her 
to many captivating allurements of youthful vanity and folly. 
During the past two years she had improved much in looks 
and in a certain assumed steadiuess and self-possession which 
sat becomingly on her. * 

She had a naturalness peculiarly her own ; she was small, 
lithe and flexile in figure, full of ease and prettiness in 
motion, and her laugh, so out-gushing and bird-like, would 
betray her in a room full of her young companions. She 
could converse quite fluently upon the surface-ground of 
almost any subject she heard discussed, though a few perti- 
nent questions might easily have shown her deficient com- 
prehension of it, and her entire ignorance where close study 
or reflection were required. I had often been surprised to 
see how she would seize upon a thought she had heard an- 
other express, and clothe it in her own words before the 
astonished speaker could claim his property. In this way 


TRUST. 


323 


she continually gained credit for more knowledge than she 
possessed, though by no means intentionally aiming at such 
a result, quite conscious of, and often frankly declaring her 
own ignorance and superficial attainments. The influence 
of the companions among whom she was now by necessity 
thrown, was in many respects bad for a nature like hers. 

Esquire Ross had always in his employ a large number 
of workmen as well as apprentices, who were often young 
men without firm principle, without intellectual cultivation, 
frivolous, and sometimes, I feared, even vicious. With no 
apparent effort, Energine invariably won from the other sex 
the admiration and attention she so well loved, and I often 
regretted that her two abundant vanity was thus easily fed. 
I could hardly forbid her associating with the other young 
people, for she was a general favorite and the. life of their 
little companies, and such refusal must have had the appear- 
ance either of pride or moroseness in me, besides requiring 
great self-denial on her part. 

Besides my anxiety for my adopted daughter, I had at 
this time many other perplexing cares. My little farm was 
losing not only in remunerative profit but in actual value, 
from the necessity of employing only hired laborers. Even 
these, it was often difficult to obtain, and their mercenary 
efforts were of course confined to securing the most money 
for the least woi’k, so that many things which would have 
been advantageous, and'even highly desirable, for the proper 
improvement of the farm, were wholly neglected. Erom 
this cause, my means of support and of education for my 


324 


HOME. 


children, were diminishing at the very period when they should 
have been increasing. 

My boy was at an age now, too, when every boy requires 
the guidance of a strong mind and a good judgment, and 
though he yielded, as ever, implicit deference to my autho- 
rity, yet I was often myself at a loss to know what was the 
best course to advise for him. The same evil influences, too, 
to which I have alluded in the case of Energine, were 
fraught with no less danger to him than to her. 

At times I was almost dispirited by the difficulties thus 
surrounding me, but a retrospect of my own experience in 
some measure reasstired me. I had learned that all human 
power is utter weakness, and I trusted not in my own. 
Strength always flows from the Fountain of Strength, in 
the hour of trial, if it is sought with humility and earnest- 
ness, and I was thus enabled still to 

“ depend 

On the One hitherto providing.” 

I remembered how, in the time of my loneliness and sor- 
row in Maine — a young girl exposed to many and various 
dangers — a home had been provided for me, and kind friends 
raised up. How I had been restored to* my father’s house 
after that long absence, and had afterwards enjoyed years 
of untold happiness. How I had been strengthened and 
sustained in the great trial of my life ; and how the appa- 
rent obstacles in the way of an amicable settlement of the 
estate had been all removed and harmony secured between 
the conflicting interests. 


TRUST. 


325 


Calling to mind all these timely benefits from the Divine 
Hand, with many instances of kindness shown to me in my 
widowhood, I seemed to trace, as a silver thread running 
through the whole web of my past history, the working of 
Providence in my behalf, and should I now begin to distrust 
its continuing care ? 

Still I pondered much upon these subjects of my solici- 
tude, though with a growing faith that a way would be 
opened for me, a plain path in which I should be led to 
walk. 

“ These are my cherished dreams to day, 

And who has dreams more fair ? 

Dreams will they prove ? — I fear it not— 

I communed with my secret thoughts, 

Nor selfish wish was there — 

One only — and it will endure — 

‘ Oh, keep my dear ones good and pure !’ 

And Heav en will hear my prayer !” 


326 


HOME, r 


CHAPTER LYII. 

GREENY ALE. 

“ Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes, 

White mists, suspended on the expiring gale, 

Moveless, o’erhang the deep secluded vale ; 

The beams of evening, slipping soft between, 

Gently illuminate a sober scene; 

Winding its dark green wood, and emerald glade, 

The still vale lengthens underneath the shade.” 

In the ensuing spring I received an unexpected visit from 
a cousin of my husband's, a lady who had some years before 
married and removed to the Genesee country, as it was then 
termed. This lady, Mrs. Fisher, had been unfortunate in 
her marriage connection, and being, after some years, cruelly 
deserted by her unprincipled husband, now found a home 
in the family of her son, in a hew settlement in the interior 
of New York. She had made the long journey to Massa- 
chusetts 'alone, with an intrepidity scarcely comprehensible 
in these days of quick travelling and certain conveyances. 
But she dreaded to encounter alone the repetition of all the 
inconveniences and annoyances on her return, and taking a 
fancy to Energine, she proposed that she should go with 
her, and find a home for a time in her son's family, at 
Greenvale. " 

At first the idea seemed quite preposterous to me, of 
allowing Energine to go so far from home and friends, but 


GREENY ALE. 


327 


the more I reflected upon the matter, the more inclined I 
grew to favor the plan, especially as Mrs. Fisher was one 
with whom I could entrust her with confidence, that she 
would be carefully guarded from temptations, and led in the 
paths of rectitude and morality. 

Energine herself was delighted with the prospect before 
her. She listened with avidity to all the descriptions which 
Mrs. Fisher gave us of their woods, their lakes, and the 
broad, level fields, so different from our own rugged hill 
country. She was not less amused with her accounts of the 
people — their manners and customs, their log-houses, rude 
vehicles, and their many peculiar forms of expressing their 
frank cordiality, and universal familiarity. She told us, too, 
of their rides, their quiltings, and their various “bees” or 
frolics, when all the men within a circuit of several miles 
would collect on some appointed day to help a neighbor in 
clearing a “piece,” gathering in a crop, or in any other job 
of work too large for him to accomplish alone, and for 
which it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for him 
to hire the requisite assistance. The neighbors, thus rallied, 
worked “ with a will,” well knowing they, in turn, would 
receive the like f^ror, whenever occasion required. 

These lively descriptions, made still more vivid to the 
mind of Energine by her own fancy, invested the new home 
to which she was invited with a charm scarcely to be 
depicted. She could see no possible evil in the way of her 
going, except the unavoidable one of leaving my own family, 
and for this she was in a measure prepared by her absence 
during the two previous years. 


328 


HOME. 


To my own more sober view, many objections presented 
themselves, as I thought of her youth, her inexperience, her 
want of serious reflection, and her love of admiration. I 
almost shuddered, as I thought of the possible evils to 
which she might be exposed in that land of strangers. 

But, on the other hand, I remembered my own inability 
to do for her as I could wish, the unhappy influences by 
which she was surrounded at home, and the necessity which 
existed that she should be enabled to maintain herself. 

With these considerations, and in the full faith that “ He 
who was able to keep her from falling” would hear my many 
petitions in her behalf, I gave my consent to Mrs. Fisher’s 
urgent request, and, after a few weeks of busy preparation 
they left. 

No doubt the “golden vapors of romance” passed from 
Energine’s picture as soon as she reached Greenvale ; for 
the familiar and near seems trivial, and only the distant and 
unknown are wonderful and grand. Still she was not the 
less happy in the reality, for hers was a bright and joyous 
nature, finding its pleasure in whatever was placed within 
its grasp, without reaching after impossibilities. She did 
not, like too many, “ while gazing at the stars, forget the 
sweetness of the violets at her feet.” 

I cannot better give an idea of her western life to the 
reader, than by inserting here a letter she wrote to me not 
long after her arrival at Greenvale. 


THE LETTER. 


5 


CHAPTER LYIII. 

THE LETTER. 

My Dear Mother : — 

I have so much to tell you abouf this pla^e and 
the people I have seen since I came here, that I hardly 
know where to begin. Young Mr. and Mrs. Fisher are 
very kind to me, and I have not been homesick at all, except 
a little Sunday nights - . 

Many of the people here are Dutch, and their ways are 
curious enough. Their houses are almost all of logs, and 
some of them have wooden chimneys — “ stick chimneys,’ 7 
they call them. I should think they would take fire, but 
Mr. Fisher says they do not very often, they are so large 
and wide. In these log houses there is generally only ofie 
room, besides a narrow bed-room, which is along one whole 
side of the house. Up the stairs, which are sometimes a 
ladder, is a dark chamber, without any partitions, except as 
they are made by hanging up sheets or blankets from the 
rafters. The people visit a good deal, though there is so 
much hard work to do — going in whole families in a big 
wagon or in a cart drawn by oxen. 

Mr. Fisher told me that when a young Dutchman begins 
to think of getting married, he thinks it essential to his suc- 
cess to have a fine horse to drive. The one Mr. Fisher has 
now, has been bought at four different times by as many dif- 


H01IE. 


Q<~* A 
OOl) 

ferent young men, who employed him on this service, and 
then sold him again after they were married. He is a beau- 
tiful horse, the best one in the town — they call him “ Top- 
notch,” or “Top” — he is of a clear white and his nose is 
bright pink ; his head is always up, and he is a very swift 
trotter, yet he is so gentle that I can drive him anywhere. 

But I must tell you of a' quilting I went to last week. I 
was invited by a young man whom I had seen once, at our 
nearest neighbor’s — a brother of the young lady who gave 
the quilting party. He came to our house the evening be- 
fore, and after talking with Mr. Eisher awhile, he turned to 
me and said, 

“ Sally Mari’s going to have a quilting to-morrow, and 
she’d like to have you come over, if you will.” 

After a few inquiries I accepted his odd invitation, and 
he left, saying he would come for me next day. At eleven 
in the forenoon he drove up in a smart red sleigh, or “ cut- 
ter,” as they call it here, and we rode Over the smooth snow 
at a fine rate to Mr. Van Kromp’s. 

There were at least thirty quilters, with only a few of 
“ the boys,” the rest of whom were expected in the evening. 
Those who were already there had only come to bring the 
girls — mostly in large sleigh-loads — and tried to make them- 
selves useful by handing spools, threading needles, and help- 
ing when the quilt was rolled. When we had worked till 
almost dark, we were invited to go into the other room (the 
long, narrow bed-room) while the supper-table was set. 

The quilt had been suspended by the four corners, of 
the frame, with strong cords, from the hooks in the beams 


THE LETTER. 


331 


above, and it was now, by some contrivance I did not fully 
understand, drawn up to be out of the way. 

W e were a good deal crowded in the bed-room, for there 
were three beds in it, besides chests, boxes, and some chairs. 
How many more things that we did not see were there I 
don’t know, but “ Aunt Jane ” — as they all called Mrs. Yau 
Krompt — came to the door once, and called out to one of 
the young men, 

“ Here, Joachim ! you sit nigh, you reach under the bed 
and give me that pan of fried cakes there.” 

He did as she told him, and handed out a great pan full 
of cakes, each as big as an apple and as brown as a nut, 
keeping one of them “ for toll,” as he said, and eating it 
while he sat talking with some of the girls. All were full 
of fun and frolic, and we were soon called out to supper. 
Oh, I wish you could have seen the tables, for there were 
two of them, loaded' down with food. There were two tur- 
keys on each, with two chickens at every corner ; then 
there were ham and roast beef, potatoes, beets, turnips and 
squash, all put on with various whimsical arrangements — 
the beets sliced into circles and hearts, the long potatoes 
and round turnips alternating upon the same dish, and the 
squash put in little cups or bowls at the side of each plate. 
Besides, there were mince-pies and apple-pies’, custards and 
pumpkin-pies, cookies, doughnuts, and cake of two or three 
kinds, and great piles o£ warm biscuit. I had almost for- 
gotten to mention the pickles and the preserves, of which 
there were a great many sorts, and the honey and the apple- 
butter. After all, a great waiter full of apples was carried 


332 


HOME. 


round. I could not possibly eat all they piled on my plate, 
but I found they thought I was proud and impolite, so I did 
as much as I could in that line. 

Before supper I had been introduced to almost every one 
in the room, by a handsome, bouncing Dutch girl, with red 
cheeks, and short curls all round her neck. A good many 
of the names were odd, but when she whispered “ this is the 
schoolmaster,” and then said — “ Miss Energine Harlow,” 
for they always give the whole name, “ I make you ac- 
quainted with Mr. Eager Poppletony” — I thought I should 
laugh out. Mr. Poppletony said he was “ glad to see me, 
as he was from the East, and heard I was too ;” and he 
talked away to me, while I could hardly listen to what he 
was saying for the looks of the man. He had a narrow 
face, light blue eyes, and white hair, a short nose, and a 
chin that looked as if it was trying to run away. Then he 
had on a long yellow vest, and a short-waisted blue coat 
with a velvet collar, and his great white hands, which he 
continually rubbed together as he talked, came ever so far 
out of his sleeves. His voice was soft and whining, and he 
laughed once in a while in a sort of a whimpering way, as 
if he was ashamed of himself for something or other. After 
supper, he came and began to talk to me again, and told 
me the names of a good many of the young people, and who 
they were, and what he thought of them. Two or three 
couples, he said, were engaged, and soon to be married ; 
and then added, 

“ Some folks are always in fits to get married, but I am 
not one of that sort.” 


THE LETTER. 


333 


I don’t know why he should have volunteered this infor- 
mation, without he was afraid I might fall in love with his 
good looks. 

At last he asked me “ if I came with anybody ?” I stared, 
for I wondered if he thought I had come all that two miles 
alone, but he explained that “ he meant to inquire if I came 
in a large sleigh ‘ promiscuous,’ (as he termed it) or with 
some enviable gallant alone ; because, if I was not thus ap- 
propriated, he should like to take me home in his cutter.” 
I told him that Mr. Yan Krompt had brought me, and he 
rolled up his eyes and said, “ Ah, happy man !” 

I was really glad when Sally Mari came to ask me to go 
and help them sing in another part of the room, and I did 
not see Mr. Eager again that evening. 

I have written so much about this quilting that I have no 
room left to tell you of our singing-school, and a good many 
other things I want you to know about. If I could only 
sit down with you at home, it would be a great deal plea- 
santer to talk over all these things than it is to write them. 
I wonder how I could have been so willing to come away, 
for now I would be a great deal more glad to go back again. 
But I remember what you used to tell me — that we made 
our lot good or bad by our own feelings — so I try to look 
at the sunshine more than at the shadow. 

Tell Charles the squirrels are all black here 

Please write soon to your affectionate daughter, 

Energine Harlow. 


334 


HOME. 


CHAPTER LIX. 
energine’s return. 

“ Be it ever so humble, 

There’s no place like home.” 

Energine’s stay at Greenvale was prolonged^ to four 
years. She kept me informed, by occasional letters, of the 
general tenor of the life she passed in that remote and then 
newly settled region, dwelling much in them upon the unwa- 
vering kindness of her friends, the Fishers. 

Her duties were not too arduous, while they were soft- 
ened and made pleasant by the unfeigned generosity of 
• heart which strove to make her feel that her place with 
them was that of a daughter or sister, rather than of a 
stranger or a common friend ; yet was she so thrown upon 
her own resources, in respect to the supply of her ordinary 
wants, and in the guidance- of her own conduct, as to fur- 
nish for her a steady course of discipline, most salutary in 
its effects. 

But amidst all the happiness which she certainly enjoyed 
in their good-will and affection, and in the flow of her own 
exuberant cheerfulness — not less the effect than the cause 
of the very favors showered upon her — her heart still yearned 
for her old home, and pined for the Scenes of her childhood. 
The love she bore to me and my children — her brother and 


EISTEKGLNe’s liETURN. 


oox 
i, oo 

sisters, as she loved to call them — could scarcely have been 
exceeded, had she been indeed my own. Though she knew 
that we were no longer in the cottage at the foot of the hill 
in Valleybrook — that that loved spot could never be home 
again — my removal to another residence only quickened still 
more her impatience to return and join me ; as it after-’ 
wards proved, however, not to be, as formerly, a member of \ 
my family, though ever a welcome guest at our fireside. 

She was for some time delayed in the fulfillment of her 
wishes, by the want of a suitable companion for her long 
and difficult journey. 

Much entreaty and many inducements were offered by 
her new friends to persuade her to remain and settle among 
them, at Greenvale ; the Fishers, in the kindness of their 
hearts, representing to her the foolishness of wishing to 
return to the hills and rocks of New England, when she 
could so easily be provided with a comfortable home of her 
own, in the midst of their rich, fertile valleys. The rich 
man of the town, who had been successively honored with 
nearly all the offices the good people could bestow — being 
at once supervisor, justice of the peace, and member of the 
Legislature — was now left a widower. He sought long and 
earnestly to win the young orphan’s consent to take the 
place of his lost companion, and be a mother to his four 
daughters, the eldest of whom was near her own age, the 
father alleging the desirable companionship of the daughter 
as an additional inducement for the compliance of Energine 
with his importunities. His efforts were seconded by the 
advice, and even entreaties of the Fishers, and the poor girl 


336 


HOME. 


was for a time almost "tempted to yield ; but, happily, the 
true instincts of the woman’s heart prevailed, and she effect- 
ually resisted all solicitations to marry him simply because 
he would make her “ a kind husband,” and provide for her 
a home of plenty, while the heart failed to be met in the 
fullness and wealth of its affections. 

Nor were younger suitors wanting, who proffered their 
sincere and manly love to the stranger maiden, and asked 
her to share with them a homely lot ; but my child felt in 
her soul no answering sympathy sufficient to turn her 
thoughts from her cherished home and the friends of her 
infancy. 

A favorable opportunity at length presenting itself for 
her return, she left the kind people of Greenvale with affec- 
tionate farewells, and followed by their tears and good 
wishes. 

Again restored to me, she was joyfully welcomed to my 
heart, with gratitude and thanksgivings to Him who had 
mercifully preserved her from dangers on the way. 

I was glad to find that though she had .not, apparently, 
been in a situation where she could command any very great 
means of improvement, she had yet gained much during her 
absence. The variety of her experience, with her quickness 
in seizing upon, and aptitude at appropriating every thing 
new, had enabled her to turn to some use whatever came 
within her range. Her mind was enlarged, and rendered 
more reflective ; her manners had acquired additional ease, 
and a shade of womanly dignity and polish. But far more 
than these, there had found entrance the deepest, strongest, 


ENEEGINE S BETTJEN. 


337 


highest power to wake up the soul to its energies and to its 
high destiny. She had experienced the power of religion. 
In her it had wrought a great and manifest change — steady- 
ing, controlling, and directing all the quick and keen sensi- 
bilities of her nature, and correcting, in good degree, her 
too versatile disposition. 

The few months she now spent with me were fraught 
with much sweet and pleasant intercourse, with delight to 
us both, and on my part with no small gratitude, that I was 
thus permitted to see the child of my adoption grown to a 
matured excellence of character I had hardly dared to hope 
for. I saw in her a humble, self-reliant desire to act well 
her part, with an all-pervading loveliness of Christian feeling 
and principles. 

To ‘my family, Energine’s descriptions and anecdotes of 
her western home were as entertaining as Mrs. Fisher’s had 
been to her before she left us. She had a good faculty at 
graphic delineations, and we could almost see the immense 
wheat-fields, the deep, dark woods, and the clear blue lakes 
of which she told us. 

Some of the incidents relating to her new acquaintances, 
and especially the Fishers, I still remember with interest. 
One in particular I will repeat here, as exemplifying the 
power of self-control evinced by the elder lady — the innate 
sense of dignity conferred by a consciousness of rectitude 
under the infliction of undeserved abuse, and the utter cal- 
lousness to which a course of vice and dissipation will reduce 
the human heart. 

Mrs. Fisher had not heard, for some years, any tidings 
15 


338 


HOME. 


of her quondam husband, and for several reasons supposed 
him to be dead, when as she stood one morning washing the 
breakfast dishes by the little sink under the kitchen window 
she saw him riding up to the house, accompanied by a 
woman whom she had never before seen, and two -young 
children. 

“ I had to hold on to the sink a moment,” said she, in 
speaking of the affair afterwards, “ but when he came in I 
did not turn round.” 

He asked for breakfast, which was readily given them, 
for in that new country there were as yet no taverns, and 
every house was free to travellers. 

The woman ate in silence — the man talked to the chil- 
dren, but apparently took little notice of Mrs. Fisher or of 
her daughter-in-law. After they had eaten, and had smoked 
their pipes in the chimney corner, they rose to go, and the 
man for the first time asked for “ the man of the house ?” 
Being told that he was at work at some distance from home, 
he carelessly remarked, “ It’s no matter, we have had a good 
breakfast,” and with no further thanks than this half-way 
acknowledgment, went to the door. But as he raised the 
latch a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and turning 
abruptly to Mrs. Fisher, to whom he had not before spoken, 
he said, in a drawling sort of a way, 

“ Let’s see, aren’t you the one that used to be Nabby 
Lewis ?” (her maiden name.) 

Drawing herself up and looking him full in the eye, she 
replied — 

“ You know my name as well as I know yours !” 


ENEBGINE S KETUKN. 


339 


The contemptible husband cowered a little, but trying to 
force a coarse laugh, he left, followed by the woman and her 
children. As soon as they were out of hearing, young Mrs. 
Fisher exclaimed, 

“Mother, who was it ?” 

“ His name is Fisher,” said the indignant but sorrowful 
woman, whose tears were now flowing — “ but don’t tell 
your husband, he will be so angered — but, oh I to think that 
that wretch is really his father 1” 

“Why, mother ! how did you feel when you saw that 
woman ?” 

“ Why, I can’t say,” she quietly and quaintly replied, 
“ that I felt any immediate affection for her !” 

From regard to her mother’s feelings the daughter forbore 
any further remarks upon the painful occurrence, and from 
that time they had no return of the unwelcome visitor. 

Energine soon accepted, with my concurrence, a situation 
in the family of Mrs. Golding, already mentioned, who was 
now advanced in life. Mrs. Golding was the eldest daugh- 
ter of old Madam Dudley, whom she closely resembled in 
character, though with far less' native powers of mind. 

Her husband was a quiet, inoffensive man, seeming -to 
think he was born for little else but to add field after field 
to his well-stocked and very profitable farm. They were 
now wealthy. Of their three sons, the eldest had distin- 
guished himself in boyhood by an aptitude in study, and 
was now the honored author of a successful series of school- 
books. The second — incited by the example of his brother, 
and himself possessed of no mean intellect — conquered the 


340 


HOME. 


natural indolence of his disposition, and cultivating his ma- 
thematical and inventive genius, had won for himself con- 
siderable fame as the originator of several important im- 
provements in machinery, and in agricultural implements. 

The youngest son was of a less enterprising turn, though 
all the children displayed a mental organization quite supe- 
rior to that of their parents. He had now reached the ma- 
ture age of thirty-five, and was the chief manager at home. 
He much resembled his uncle, Sam Lyman — the husband 
of my sister Mary — and this was not only in looks, but in 
his somewhat pompous manner and language, and in his up- 
right, honorable, and independent character. 

Living as he had so long done, with no female companion- 
ship but that of his peevish and exacting mother, the coming 
of Energine into their household was like the gleaming ray 
of a sweeter life upon the ungracious seeming of his own. 

It was not a surprising, though to me a most unexpected 
result, that he was wholly captivated by her winning, 
sprightly grace and beauty. Her ready sympathy, the 
cheerful kindliness of her disposition, won his fervent admi- 
ration, and filled his entire being with an emotion to which 
he had hitherto been wholly a stranger. 

He succeeded, in spite of the unkindness and opposition of 
his money -loving mother, who, it must be recollected, was 
the daughter of Madam Dudley, in awakening a correspond- 
ing sentiment in the heart of my child, and after some delay 
their marriage took place, with fair promise of happiness, 
which in their subsequent life has been well fulfilled. 

Religion had enlarged and improved, not changed, Ener- 


energine’s return. 


341 


gine’s disposition. The same genial humor, the same love of 
the bright and gay, even her old craving for admiration, 
were all perceptible in the matron and mother, which we 
have seen in the youthful maiden ; but so modified as to 
have become excellences rather than defects. 

Her mirthfulness, subdued to a serener hue, became cheer- 
ful cordiality. The beautiful in nature was ever fresh to her 
eyes, and many a happy thought and feeling did she gain 
and impart to others from the delighted contemplation of 
the ornaments with which God has decked the earth. 

Her delight in the approval of others led her to strive for 
their pleasure, and in the endeavor she forgot self, and 
learned the higher bliss of doing good. 

To her husband she was a joy, a sunbeam, and in their 
children were mingled the solidity and strength of the 
sterner nature with the delicacy and elegance of the mother. 

“ Thou sweetest thing 
That e’er did fix its lightly-fibred sprays 
To the rude rock ; ah ! woulds’t thou cling to me ? 

Rough and storm-worn I am ! but if thou lov’st me— 

Thou truly dost — I will love thee again 
With true and honest heart, tho’ all unmeet 
To be the mate of such sweet gentleness.” 


342 


HOME. 


CHAPTER LX. 

RETROSPECT AND CHANGE. 

“ Whence that low voice ? — a whisper from the heart 
That told of days long past.” 

In relating these later circumstances of Energine’s history, 
I have brought my narrative down to a period in advance 
of actual events respecting myself which happened soon after 
her departure to the West with kind Mrs. Fisher. 

Nearly nine years of my widowed life had now passed, and 
although there ever hung around my dwelling, like a dark 
shadow, that “ cruel sense of loss yet I was not unhappy, 
for I had a Heavenly Comforter. He who had led me all 
my life long was with me still — a Presence of light, and joy, 
and peace. 

I looked back to the time of my gleeful, sunny childhood, 
in my father’s house : I seemed to stand on the brow of the 
hill, and view the brown cottage peeping out from behind 
the little clump of cherry trees, and my heart warmed at 
the thought. My first great journey to Boston, and to 
Maine, came up fresh and glowing with the vision of my 
happy girlhood. Then rose to my mind the remembrance 
of life’s golden prime, when the cup of earthly happiness 
was full — when 

“ The soberness of undisturbed bliss 
j Held even empire in the mind, 

Like steady sunshine in a cloudless day.” 


RETROSPECT AND CHANGE. 


343 


Again, the ever-present consciousness that 

“ The storm had been with me, and I was left 
Torn and uprooted and laid in the dast.” 

In childhood, in youth, in maturer years, the Merciful 
One had guided my path and led my steps, and was prepar- 
ing for me even now, when I knew it not, greater blessings 
and new happiness. 

The lapse of time will bring change — change of circum- 
stances, change in the aspects of things, and in the views 
we take of them — change ever, too, in that successive, inex- 
tricable net-work of present scenes, duties, particular pur- 
suits and feelings, in which we are each involved and form 
a part ; and that makes up the machinery of our strange, 
busy, mysterious, ever-flitting life. But change, so all- 
powerful, need not, cannot, touch the affections of the 
heart — our inner selves. The world of cherished, happy 
associations links the past with the present — and the chain 
is bright ! True, the happiness of yesterday is not that of 
to-day ; the peculiar delights and pleasant things of the past 
are gone, and they will not be recalled ; the fountain may 
rise as high, the stream flow as deep and as broad now as 
then ; but that then still remains a distinct charm of the 
past, rendered, perchance, still more dear -by a conscious 
feeling of half regret that it has thus drifted back on the 
resistless current of time. 

Let me return again to my story. I have spoken of my 
perplexities, on several points, before the departure of 
Energine with our cousin, Mrs. Fisher, and though relieved 
by that event as respected her, still there were other things 


3U 


HOME. 


which gave me no little disquietude. My next neighbor, it 
will be perhaps recollected, was David Hill, whose wife, 
Eunice Cotting, was a dear friend, the sister of Bessy’s 
husband. She was a pale, delicate woman, suffering all her 
life from frequent illness, and I had seen her fade away 
gradually, step by step, until, with the coming of the early 
spring flowers, she died, and was laid in her peaceful grave, 
leaving behind her two little girls, about the age of my own. 
I had been with her much during the long, slow progress 
of the disease — that insidious, but fell disease, consump- 
tion — which, while it too surely marks its victim, leaves the 
mind clear and unclouded to the last ; and much consolation 
I had in the serenity and truly Christian joy which smoothed 
and lighted her way through the dark valley. 

After the lapse of some months, Mr. Hill, always quite 
neighborly and social, began to make more frequent calls, 
and ere long became a regular visitor every Sunday evening, 
after the services of the day were over, chatting awhile on 
various trivial subjects, and then taking leave. 

These visits troubled me, not only that they drew forth 
certain sly hints and intimations, unpleasant to me, from 
my neighbors, but more especially because they occupied 
that portion of the holy day which I was accustomed to 
devote to my children, and which I prized too highly, 
willingly to spend in frivolous conversation. 

Besides this, I could not avoid the thought that some 
particular purpose prompted the unusual attention— a pur- 
pose to which I should be utterly averse. Neither was it 
difficult to guess at motives on his part not particularly flat- 


RETROSPECT AND CHANGE. 


345 


tering to me, nor indeed very creditable to himself ; for my 
little, though valuable, farm adjoining his, would make a 
very pretty and commodious addition to his own snug pro- 
perty. Altogether, I was uneasy, almost vexed, at the 
proceeding ; yet could I find no way, without resorting to 
absolute rudeness, to free myself from the unwelcome intru- 
sion and real annoyance. 

A pleasant and friendly neighbor, David Hill, could be to 
me nothing more, and I was often reminded of our “ sisterly 
conferences,” of which he was the unconscious subject in 
reference to our dear Grace. 

In the midst of my embarrassment, an unexpected event 
brought about a new phase in my affairs. An old friend, 
a gentleman whom I had not seen for several years, came 
one day to see me. He prolonged his stay for several 
hours ; he asked and obtained permission to come again : 
but I will reserve to another chapter the fuller explanation 
of what was to me of so much importance. 


15 * 


34G 


HOME. 


CHAPTER L X I . 

THE WIFE. 


“ Oh ! on his liberal front, there beamed a look 
Unto the which, all good and generous hearts 
Answer returned.” 

“ How much tranquillity and contentment in human homes ! Calm onflowings of 
life shaded in domestic privacy, and seen only at times coming out into the open 
light.” 


One bright day in March, two single horse sleighs might 
have been seen passing fleetly over the well-trodden snow 
toward the East ; their destination the pleasant town of 
Rawley, twelve miles from Way land. In the foremost sat, 
comfortably wrapped in furs, hopeful and happy, the one, 
gentle reader, so often brought before your notice in this 
narrative, for some time past known familiarly as “the 
Widow Coke,” no longer so — by my side, conversing in an 
animated manner, was Mr. Isaac Howard. 

Behind us were my three children — Charles was the driver 
—his two sisters with him, going, in all the trust and joy of 
childhood, to their new home. 

About dark we arrived at a neat white house, on an ele- 
vated spot, surrounded by fine scenery, and commanding an 
extensive prospect. 

As we entered the spacious family room, a cheerful, blaz- 


THE WIFE. 


347 


iug fire was brightly reflected in the large, brass andirons, 
the tea-table was awaiting our arrival, loaded with tempt- 
ing viands, and an air of comfort and plenty pervaded the 
whole. Two young maidens, busy in the last touches of 
preparation, came promptly forward to welcome and assist 
us in removing cloaks and shawls, and arranging all com- 
fortably. 

Soon I was seated* at the head of that table — my two 
smiling little girls on my right — my son, staid and serious, 
yet with a half-roguish expression, by the side of his new 
father, whose eyes beamed upon me with a clear, living 
light, such as only full trust and serene happiness can en- 
kindle. After the tea things were removed, we passed into 
the adjoining room, and my husband, taking my hand, said, 

“ Here, my Anna, is the place where I hope we shall en- 
joy much together.” 

It was a small room, with pleasant windows, and book- 
shelves tastefully arranged and well filled — quite a little 
boudoir was the room. It was finished with some elegance, 
according to the style of those days ; and the color, being 
the lightest of all blues, with paper to match, gave it a 
lively and even gay appearance, lighted up as it was by the 
cheerful fire. 

Here, indeed, were spent many delightful evenings, full 
of calm enjoyment, in the converse of congenial minds, or in 
the mutual pleasure derived from the perusal together of 
improving and entertaining books. My children had found 
a father ; he sought their good ; he instructed them from 
the stores of his own knowledge. It had been my delight 


34S 


HOME. 


in my hours of lonely leisure to lead them, step by step, 
through the toilsome routine of school studies, and they 
were ready -scholars ; now a fresh impulse was given to their 
endeavors. 

My children were, indeed, most happy and favored in this 
new relation ; they had no remembrance of their own father, 
and easily transferred to my husband the filial affection due 
to a parent, to which he on his part heartily responded. 
He delighted to guide them young minds, taking a deep in- 
terest in their rapid development, and seeing, almost with a 
father’s pride, any quickness, attractive qualities, or ability 
in them. 

We were now in a neighborhood, agreeable, orderly, and 
social, free, in great measure, from the untoward influences 
to which I have before alluded as the source of anxiety to 
me. Most pleasant and cheerful, too, were the surround- 
ings of our home in Rawley ; there was not, it is true, the 
quiet and picturesque beauty of Yalley Brook, with its 
winding streamlet and its hill-sides crowned with verdure, 
but a beauty no less real, though grander in outline. A 
gentle slope to the south gave a sunny exposure, on which 
the light rested pleasantly, while the morning sun threw 
across the broad, green plat in front the slender shadows 
of the flourishing young maples bordering the rustic road. 

On the north, a bare and rocky mountain loomed up, grey 
and misty, in the distance ; while just beyond the orchard, 
were two small, gracefully rounded hills, rising from the 
plain field, so green, so lovely in their patches of waving 
grass, half-hidden rocks, and clumps of trees, that they were 


THE WIFE. 


349 


like a picture before the eye. But, above all, adown the 
smooth, green slope in front, were the pleasant, open woods, 
so beautiful in their every variety of hue and shade, with 
many sunny glades and dim recesses ; the “ quivering* aspen,” 
the thrifty beech and birch, a sprinkling of the pure verdure 
and graceful tassels of the larch, with the dark, solemn firs, 
their tall cones pointing skyward, and the lofty pine, the 
hoary inhabitants of the forest. 

When, as a young man, “ Master Howard” sought my 
love, my girlish, maiden heart beat no response; it had 
already its secret image within ; but when the matured man 
of forty, courteous and dignified, proffered me the support 
of his manly arm — the strength and guidance of his well- 
cultured and gifted mind, my soul, chastened, yet quickened 
to larger, nobler aim and purpose, found sweet repose and 
solace in the true friendship and faithful affection of such 
an earthly guide and protector. Again I experienced the 
pure and ennobling exercise of those affections on which the 
seal of Death had been placed I That wonderful, mysteri- 
ous, precious sympathy — wedded love ! 

Years succeeded, not indeed exempt from trial, dimmed, 
too, by frequent ill health and many weighty cares, yet 
cheered by new joys and hopes, and solaced by the kindness 
and devoted love of my noble husband. 

He was a tower of strength unto me. In him, all my 
purer, better feelings, my nobler aspirations, met a ready 
response, and I was thus led, in delighted companionship, 
to a higher range of thought and mental attainment, fitting 


350 


HOME. 


me the better, I trust, for the important responsibilities of 
mother. 

Four more were added to the number of my treasures — 
three gleeful, sprightly boys, and one fair, gentle girl. 
With us were never known the differences so unwisely made 
in my father’s family, but we were all one loving, united 
household. 

A few more years glided on, and my husband, at the 
earnest solicitation of friends, established himself in Boston, 
as furnishing more ample scope for his profession, and also 
greater advantages for our children. 

In this favored city — the Queen of New England — we 
found a quiet, pleasant home, encircled with its elegances, 
refinements, and numerous facilities for the liberal culture 
of the mind and heart. Our children — the elder ones just 
entering upon busy life — availing themselves of their in- 
creased means of advancement, were rapidly improving, and 
we looked forward with high hopes of future prosperity and 
happiness. 

Here let me stop — let me be spared the record that 
follows, lest I darken the picture by the recital of fresh 
scenes of sorrow — for sorrow, deep and bitter, was again 
my portion. 

I was again a widow ! Yet let me gratefully remember, 
that in this second hour of grief there was comfort mingled 
even with the bitter cup ; for my husband, so beloved, so 
lamented, died in the assured hope and peace of the 
Christian. 


THE WIFE. 


351 


Many years have now gone ! Their even course has 
not indeed reflected a cloudless sky, though comparatively 
unruffled and serene. In casting my eye along the winding, 
“backward track” of life, thankfulness to my God and 
Saviour is the feeling that, more than all others, pervades 
my heart. 

My later years have been passed in tranquillity and con- 
tent, blessed in the dutiful affection of my sons and daugh- 
ters, now all happily married and settled in life. 

Time has silvered my hair, and dimmed my eyes, but in 
iny children’s children I live over again the scenes of my 
youth. 

How beautiful the dewy freshness of the dawn of day ! 
when, with the bright morning sun, all things rejoice in 
fragrance and in beauty. 

So, in early youth, the spirit looks forth, joyous and free; 
each fair, smiling path strewn with roses, and an ever- 
widening vista opens of loveliness and bliss. 

But, as surely as the sultriness of the deepening noon, 
the dust and strife, the tumult of the crowded street and 
busy mart, follow, not with lingering steps, the quiet cool- 
ness of the summer morning, so surely must the green and 
flowery paths of the spring-time of life lead to the rough 
slope and steep ascent. All must thread the tangled maze 
of life — each with his burden of perturbed and anxious 
thoughts, alternate hopes and fears, and longing aspirations 
ever unfulfilled ! And is this all of life ? Is there then no 
light, no hope to cheer, amid thick-coming cares and blight- 
ing disappointments ? There is a Hope, never fading ; 


352 


HOME. 


there is a Light, shining clear and steady. Its beams are 
shed on a path shady and sequestered, but not lonely — 
where the pure breezes softly echo back the pleasant voices 
of a happy company, singing as they journey on — where ver- 
dant boughs, overhanging with thickly clustering branches, 
drop fruits of love and kindness. It is the path from Earth 
to Heaven. 


THE END 


J. c. derby’s publications. 


A LONG LOOK AHEAD; 

OR, THE FIRST STROKE AND THE LAST. 

BY A. S. BOB , 

AUTHOR OF “ JAMES MONTJOY ; OR, l’VE BEEN THINKING,” “ TO LOYE AND BE LOVED,” HO. 

1 vol. 12mo. Price $1 25. 

“ The purpose of this book is so manifest to inspire juster estimates of life and charac- 
ter, and its purpose is so well attained, that we improve the occasion of noticing it to 
add our earnest approval of its lesson and moral, perforce of convictions born of our own 
observation and experience. We have read the book thoroughly, and like it as 
thoroughly. It is one of the very best books of its kind, and the author and publisher 
have both ‘ done the state service ’ in placing it before the public.” — N. Y. Evening 
Mirror. 

“ The story is beautifully told, and the characters are types of moral loveliness. No 
one- can read and ponder it, without the tears starting unbidden to the eye, and sympa- 
thising hope irradiating the countenance. Such works do much to counteract the evil 
tendencies of the mushroom trash that constitutes our bar-room and “ sporting ” literature, 
and the thanks of the public are eminently due to both the author and the publisher for 
this most acceptable counter current to the streams of demoralization which are now 
sweeping over the land.” — Binghampton Republican. 

“ The lover of the country, who knows its scenes and duties, who can delight in the 
gambols of the young colt in the meadows, or enjoys the sweet perfume from the haycock 
the breath of the cud-chewing cow — better still, he who can swing a scythe, a cradle, or 
turn a smooth furrow, will undoubtedly relish this simple narrative of country life, and 
the pure, unadulterated native American manners and customs therein described.” — 
Newark, Daily Advertiser. 

“ It has a charming simplicity and purity, and its characters have a freshness and 
naturalness not often found in works of the kind. The impression of the story is ad- 
mirable — adapted to inspire the young with sentiments of self-reliance, honor and 
integrity, and to produce charity and good feeling in all. The religious tone which it 
exhibits is excellent, and a genial warmth pervades the whole work.” — N. Y. Evan* 
gelist. 

“ It is not only far beyond the general run of what are called, by courtesy, American 
novels, but it is superior to many books that have sold by tens of thousands. It has 
positive merits of a high order. The dialogue, incidents and characters are natural, and 
as a whole, it is an impressive production. We commend the novel to otfr readers, as a 
pleasant book.” — Boston Post. 

« Whoever commences reading what he has written, must give up the idea of attending 
to other business until the story is read through ; for there is such an interest excited in 
the subject that one is insensibly compelled to read on to the end. There is a good spirit 
pervading his writings, which insensibly affects the reader.” — Boston Evening Telegraph . 

“ You cannot finish five pages of this work (unless your heart be hard as adamant) 
without finding all the home feelings stirred within you, and you read on and on, uncon- 
scious of aught beside, unwilling to lay it by, until the last line is finished. It opens with 
all the sweet simplicity of Goldsmith’s ‘ Deserted Village.’ ” Albany Spectator 


J. c. derby’s publications. 


THE WHITE DOVE, AND OTHER BALLADS 

FOR CHIEDREN. 

BY MRS. E. W. TO WNSEND, 

OP PHILADELPHIA. 

16mo., Illustrated. Price, 50 cents ; full gilt sides and edges, 75 cents. 

“Dean Swift, or Sterne, or Doctor Johnson, or somebody else, when in doubt about tbe 
quality of any new literary effort, used to read it to the housekeeper. If she understood 
and liked it, no doubt it was true to nature. Adopting this plan, we called up a little boy 
and girl to try this book upon. The boy flung himself into a chair and put his leg over 
the arm, as if he expected to be bored. The small damsel took to the rug as for a nap. 
We tried the Snow Storm about Bruno and his children, with success highly flattering 
to the authoress. The small damsel sat up, pushed back her curls and opened her eyes 
very wide. The boy looked away off out of the window, and swung his cowhide boots 
about as if he didn’t care. But the tears, not few nor small, glistened in the eyes of both, 
We think the book will do.” — Vermont Statesman. 

“ Good rhymes for children are rare indeed, and this will make this elegant little volume 
a welcome addition to the juvenile library. The lady holds a graceful and familiar pen, 
and the children will know her poems only to love and remember them. Many a boy and 
girl will be happier for its cheerful pictures, pretty thoughts and good sentiments. A book 
like this is worth a hundred copies of ‘ Mother Goose ’ or any of her family. Those who 
would form a taste for good reading in the young, should place such books as this in their 
hands.” — Worcester Palladium. 

“ Tbe sweetest and happiest productions in that class of writing that we have met with 
for a long time. The conceits are full of the finest and most delicate fancy, and the 
versification is music itself. The narratives are so simple and natural that childhood will 
comprehend and enjoy them, while the delicately-drawn pictures of life and nature possess 
a charm that may well beguile the hours of age.” — U. S. Magazine. 

“ Hei e s a nice book for nice little people ; full of poetry, pictures and beautiful stories, 
printed in large type, on fine white paper, and bound to be- read. Children who love good 
books will be largely indebted to those who publish such excellent ones as The White 
Dove.” — Gospel Banner. 

“ The writer has succeeded in clothing the purest sentiments in natural and touching 
verse. Love of nature, and sympathy with the young, have been admirably blended in 
the composition of the volume.”— JV. Y. Tribune. 

“ We have l00ked through them carefully. They are well written— are moral, sensible, 
and noble in their ideas and they contain nothing to offend any parent’s creed, for their 
religiousness is that of every true human heart.”— Boston Post. 

“ Here is a beautiful little volume that will make many a young heart sing for joy, when 
old Santa Claus leaves a copy of it in the stocking in the chimney corner, next 
Christmas.” — Maine Farmer. 

u A charming collection of poems for children— simple, natural, and graphic ; such m 
the heart of a child dotes upon.” — M. Y. Independent. 


25 


J. c. derby’s publications. 


THE AMERICAN GIFT BOOK; 

A PERPETUAL SOUVENIR. 

With Six elegant Steel Engravings, viz. : “ The Marriage of Washington,’’ 
“ Goddess of Liberty,” “Portrait of Washington,” “Portrait of Daniel 
Webster,” “Spirit of ’76,” “Portrait of Martha Washington.” To- 
gether with “ Washington’s Farewell Address,” “ Constitution of the 
United States,” and the “ Declaration of Independence.” Price $1 ; 
cloth, full gilt, $1 50. 

“ The getting-up of this nice volume was a happy thought. It awakens and invigorates 
the noblest patriotic sentiments, and, withal, fortifies patriotism by Bible religion. The 
volume opens with ‘ Washington’s Farewell Address,’ among the richest legacies ever 
bestowed by a patriot upon his country; and then follows, in prose and poetry, the hap- 
piest and most soul-stirring appeals to the reason and hearts of Americans, warning them 
of the danger of foreign influence adverse to their free institutions, and exciting to sleep- 
jess vigilance in their perpetuation. The book gives a clear exhibition of what the 
Know-Nothings ’ are ; shows the necessity for such an association; and excites an 
earnest hope that they may be preserved and prospered as the life-guard of civil and 
religious liberty.” — Christian Advocate and Journal. 

“ This is a sterling annual, full of living truth which must be commended by every 
editor who is not a Jesuit at heart, and find a response in the soul of every lover of 
American soil and institutions. Every page in it is of sterling value, and should be com- 
mitted to memory, a.nd handed down from father to child. The matter in such a book is 
its own best adornment. Washington and the worthies following after him here speak in 
the living present, and poets of the soil set to glowing measure the glories of our Protest- 
ant birthright.” — Albany Spectator. 

‘‘We venture to say that so far as the contents are concerned, this gift-book will not 
be excelled by any which will be issued this season. Besides these, there are nearly one 
hundred American articles of a truly American character, many of them written by the 
brightest stars in the splendid galaxy of American Authors.” — Christum Freeman. 

“We doubt if in any similar compass of modern literature so many fine thoughts, both 
In poetry and prose, can be found crowded together. The Webster Hulsemann letter 
is among the contributions, and some of the best poetry of our patriotic writers.” — N. T. 

Express. 

“ We earnestly commend this book, and because it is a good one — good for the times^ 
for the people, and for the American cause. It cannot fail to become a favorite. Let the 
Wide-Awake be found before every American face and eye.” — Boston Bee. 

“ The articles are all patriotic effusions, calculated to arouse the true American feeling. 
The K. N.’s will greet with delight the work, and peruse its pages with avidity and 
interest.” — Wittiamsburgh Times. 

“ We predict an immense sale for the volume, which is so thoroughly American in 
subject and sentiment, and a product of American talent and genius that will be prized by 
all true Americans.”-- Boston Transcript. 

23 


J. c. derby’s publications. 


YOUNG LADY’S OWN BOOK; 

AN OFFERING OF LOYE AND SYMPATHY. 

1 vol., 12mo. elegantly Illustrated. Price $1 25 ; or full gilt sides and 
edges, $2. 

“ This volume will be found to be of great interest to our female friends. It is inscribed 
to the Women of America, as 1 Au Offering of Love, Hope, Sympathy and Cheer.’ The 
authoress has brought a volume before the public, which will fill an unoccupied place in 
literature, and be of permanent interest and value. Quite a number of the most promi- 
nent writers in America have given the authoress valuable assistance in the preparation 
of the volume. The design of the book is quite happy, and the volume, upon examination, 
will commend itself to the judgment and taste of those who wish to procure a new book 
for young ladies.” — Boston Transcript. 

“ The sentiments of the poets and the flowers have been variously clustered and applied 
to the illustration of human passions and virtues ; but Rosalie Bell has alone wandered 
through the blooming parterre, and gathered lilies, and violets, and roses, and all sweet 
flowers of the garden and field, and the not less rare blossoms of poetic inspiration, and 
woven them in an exquisite wreath, to illustrate and crown the Graces of Womanhood. 
A most loving and delicate work — not juster as a tribute to, than noble as a witness of, 
her true appreciation of her sex. Among the multitude of volumes of the day 

‘ Some bom to live, but more to die.’ 

this is one that will not soon be laid aside or forgotten. It fills a space too long vacant, 
and is a welcome guest.” — AT. Y. Mirror. 

“ A number of our finest writers, whose names alone would give value to any work, 
have added to these Lilies and Violets a native flower from the garden of genius, wisdom, 
or lofty sentiment. The editor has performed her own part in character with the genuine 
spirit of love for all excellent things in woman— the perfect ornaments of purity, modesty, 
truth, and innocence. The book is worthy of all attention and patronage, both from its 
moral and refining tendency, and the elegant and artistic style in which the publishers 
have issued it from the press.” — Louisville Jov/rnal. 

“ This is a cluster of luxuriant and beautiful things, and many of them come from some 
of the most gifted writers in the country, among whom we may mention Dr. J. W. 
Alexander, W. C. Bryant, John Neal, Epes Sargent, Mrs. Sigourney, &c., &c. The book is 
pervaded by a fine, moral and religious tone, and encourages good thoughts and feelings 
as well as exemplifies good taste.” — Puritan Recorder. 

“ In this graceful and pretty volume, we find not only a gathering of the Lilies and 
Violets from the garden of life, but also a twining of all the fresh and sweet flowers of 
purity, innocence, modesty, beauty and taste ; together with the blending leaves of 
genius, wisdom, and Christian virtues. Among the contributors to this lovely garland, we 
observe the names of some of the finest writers in our country. There is Bryant with his 
calm, contemplative thought, Longfellow with his philosophic imagination, Prentice with 
his sparkling sentiment — Oakes Smith with her lofty, impulsive feeling, and Ellet with her 
acute perception of truth — likewise many others, each with characteristic talent, made 
av\ U'vble by ‘ the pe* of the ready writer.’ Easton ( Pa .,) Whig. 


J. c. derby’s publications. 


HUNTING ADVENTURES IN THE 
NORTHERN WILDS ; 

OR, A TRAMP IN THE 6HATEAUGUAY WOODS, OVER HILLS, LAKES, AND 

FOREST STREAMS. 

BY S. U. HAMMOND. 

1 elegant 12mo. volume, with 4 Illustrations. Price $1. 

“ He spent several weeks trouting in Cragg Lake, hunting by torchlight, chasing deer 
on Stoney Brook and Racquette River, shooting partridges on the Saranac, picking off 
panther cubs, astonishing bears, waking up owls, and walking into rattle-snakes, and 
rousing out bald eagles and other animals too numerous to mention, camping under the 
canopy of heaven with only a blanket of brush, cooking his trout or venison over a pine- 
knot fire, rafting down the rivers, listening to woodmen’s yarns, and tracing out in the 
wilderness relics of its early Jesuit discoverers and its long-gone Indian owners. Many 
a sportsman will envy him his 1 luck,’ and many not sportsmen, will read with gratification 
his descriptions of life in the woods.” — Albany Evening Journal. 

“ Izaak Walton would have been delighted to read such a book, and Christopher North 
would be happy in inhaling such good-humored sketches of country sports. We have 
rarely read anything more instinct of life and fun than this book, or which is more 
appropriate to the season of summer and rural life.” — N. Y. Express. 

*• Reader, you have a rich treat before you in the pages of this volume, which comes 
before you with interminable changes— magnificent groves, whose tall trees have withstood 
the storms of a thousand years, luxuriant gardens, fertile meadows, quiet lakes, and 
running brooks ; hills, valleys, and mountains — a multitude of attractions to inspire new, 
enlarged, fresh thoughts in the mind that is wearied with the dull routine of our city life 
and dusty streets.” — Philadelphia Conner. 

“ A book that will be greeted by sportsmen and eagerly read by the lovers of romantic 
adventure. Such readers will envy the author’s happiness when they find him pulling up 
the simple, uneducated trout from those secluded lakes, tipping over the deer at every 
shot, snuffing the fresh breezes of those old primeval mountains and hills, and listening 
to the music of the wild, wild woods.” — Auburn Daily Journal. 

“ His descriptions of the forest, the stream, the lake, the meadow, the birds and the 
blossoms, are spontaneous gushes — warm feelings set to the simple music of Saxon words. 
Tb.e author has not only travelled among the scenes he paints so well, but has tarried with 
them until he has found out all their secrets.” — Buffalo Express. 

J 

“ It is a book to keep awake even in summer afternoons and evenings, conveying one 
most glibly across hills, lakes, and forest streams, and pointing out all that is worth seeing 
or feeling. There is much to warn up by wit, and to thrill by daring, in the book ; and 
he who reads it and don’t want to hie straight off in the country, may — read it through 
again and see how mistaken a man he is.” — Boston Bee. 

“ It is so attractive that he who opens it will reluctantly relinquish it till he has followed 
the writer over the hills, across the lakes, and among the forest streams.” — Rochester 
American. 

“ All the lovers of the country and of country life, of rural scenery and of nature in its 
wild grandeur, of the sports of the forest and the stream, should buy this book and read 
it.” Troy Times. 

21 


j. c. derby’s publications. 


GREECE AND THE GOLDEN HORN. 

A RECORD OF ORIENTAL TRAVELS IN GREECE AND 'TURKEY. 

BY fHE LATE STEPHEN OLIN , D. D., LL. D. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY REV. J. MC CLINTOCK, D.D. 

1 elegant 12mo. vol., with 4 Illustrations and a Map of Constantinople. 
Price $1. 

44 Peculiar interest attaches to this volume, not only on account of its subject, which is 
at the present juncture one of the most important that engages public attention, but also 
on account of its being a posthumous work of a very great and good man, whose decease 
is still deeply lamented by a large branch of the Church. The Rev. Dr. Olin made 
provision in his will that, 44 in case he left no children, the copyright of his 4 Travels in the 
East * should be given to the Wesleyan University at Middletown ; and moreover, that on 
the death of Mrs. Olin, and in default of children to inherit, the whole of his property 
Should fall to the University. His wife and son survive him, but the present volume is 
dedicated, in the spirit of his last will, to the object he so dearly cherished. The whole 
profits of the book will accrue to the Wesleyan University, to whose trustees the copyright 
has been assigned.” This statement is derived from Dr. McClintock ; but we add that 
the attractions of the book are sufficient to merit and secure the attention of the public, 
without any adventitious interest. Dr. Olin’s fine powers of description were stimulated 
to their highest exertion by his torn* through classic and Oriental regions, and all that he 
observed is depicted to the mind of the reader in truthful colors. The introduction has 
been prepared by Dr. McClintock with great ability, and with that thorough mastery of 
his theme which usually characterizes his writings.” — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

44 Whoever ha3 read Dr. Olin’s volumes, containing an account of his travels in the 
East, will need no other inducement to place this additional one in his library. The 
countries it describes are not less interesting in their history, than the monuments of the 
arts and sciences which they retain even in their ruins, and Dr. Olin possessed in great 
excellence that graphic power which presents things in their realities to an attentive 
reader. Withal, we know what he writes is always true. He was too conscientious to 
indulge his imagination, vivid as it was, at the expense of truth. We may safely rely, 
both upon his statements, and his descriptions, in which regard travellers are proverbially 
prone to exaggeration, if not to fanciful creations of their own. The deep concern in 
the public mind which recent occurrences in the East have enkindled, cannot fail to create 
a general desire to read this volume, which we assure our friends will abundantly repay 

the perusal.” — Christian Advocate and Journal. 

• 

44 Thankfully, but mournfully, will it be received and read. Thousands who remember 
the peerless mind and majestic form of the author, will recognise in these pages tho 
tracings of his masterly hand. ****** Jt has been highly gratifying to us to 
read this last and unexpected work from the gifted and sainted Olin. He has 4 fallen 
asleep,’ but his memory will be devoutly cherished by the thousands that knew him. 
Apart from recollections of this kind, the volume is worthy of attention, and we predict 
that few who begin to read it will wish to stop till they have read it through.”— Northern 
Christian Advocate „ 


19 


J. c. derby’s publications. 


NEW ENGLAND BOYS; 

OR, 

THE THREE APPRENTICES. 

BY A. L. S TIHSOH. 

1 elegant 12mo. volume, Illustrated. Price $1 25. ( 

** Some of the scenes painted are enough to make ossified hearts quiver. There are 
tempters and temptations ; and almost every variety of character is introduced and made 
to play its part, and the description is of the most thrilling nature imaginable. John 
Hard is a true representative of the Yankee character ; the parson’s anecdote of the Hay 
family, of South Carolina, the wealthy, dissipated young men who were burned in the 
barn because they were too much intoxicated to escape, will do more wherever read to 
prevent rum-drinking than the ‘ Maine Law.’ It is seldom that we find in a novel so 
many notable characters, and so many good points made as this.” — Bingham Gazette. 

“ We take pleasure in recommending this work to young men. It points in a most 
powerful manner the road to vice, and warns, most emphatically, those who are in it of 
the fate they may expect if they do not change their tactics. The author vei - y justly 
remarks that in the idle and the vicious ‘the six degrees of crime’ — wine, women, 
gambling, theft, murder, and the gallows — are all attained. The evils of intemperance 
are most powerfully depicted, and the dangers to which that class of young men who are 
known as good-natured jovial fellows are exposed, fully portrayed. The author has 
also shown the dangers of relying on circumstantial proof in the conviction of crime. 
His book should be read by all young men who really desire to escape the way that leads 
to ignominy and death.” — H. Y. Times. 

“ A temperance book, and is well adapted to impress the lessons of this great reform 
upon every thoughtful mind. It is written with much graphic force, its moral is excellent 
and obvious, and its descriptions of character life-like. We hope it will obtain a wide 
circulation, for its influence must be good.” — Albany Prohibitionist. 

“ A lively, funny, graphic story, which would reflect no discredit upon Dickens. What 
with the fun in the book and the good moral lesson which it conveys, it must have a good 
sale.” — Hartford Courant. 

“ Full of fun and adventure, inculcating a wholesome moral, full of stirring incidents, 
by turns humorous or pathetic, and altogether just the book to attract the attention and 
suggest thought.” — N. Y. Atlas. 

“ As a matter of pure philanthropy, we cannot but hope that ‘ Easy Nat ’ will be able to 
reach ‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ in public favor.” — Boston Citizen. 

“ A highly entertaining work this, and full of the spice, romance and reality of life. 
The style is attractive, the moral excellent.” — Boston Bee. 

“ This is one of the books that will sell. It i3 readable, racy, and written with a good 
moral purpose.” — United States Journal. 

“ The story is one of great interest, truthful and life-like ; the desire to render vice 
odious, and to show how it can be avoided, being apparent in every page.” — Phil. Hews, 

“ Will make most persons the better and wiser to read.” — H. Y. Dispatch. 

17 


j. c. derby’s publications. 


AMERICAN EVENING ENTERTAINMENTS 

OR, TALES OF CITY AND COUNTRY LIFE. 

BY JANE C. CAMPBELL. 

12mo. Price $1. 

“Mrs. Campbell evinces fine taste, considerable knowledge of the world, and more phi- 
losophical thought than is usually exercised by female writers. Her prose style is unaf- 
fected, and varied with facility in accordance with the subject, and there are several 
original songs interspersed which would do no discredit to poets of established fame. We 
think the collection bears evidences of a genius for literature scarcely less remarkable 
than that of her brother, an American sculptor, for art.” — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser 

rt Descriptions like these, of home, its duties, its joys, and sorrows, and beautiful affec- 
tions, cannot be read without making the heart better ; and, though wiseacres sneer at 
the great number of 44 women books ” that have recently made their appearance, we do 
not regret to see the number on the increase. No one can read the volume before us 
without feeling that none but woman could have given us these admirable sketches of 
home and its duties, and the fatal consequences of their neglect.” — N~. Y. Democrat . 

44 The object of this work is to add a salutary check to the money-loving, money-getting 
spirit of the age. Some of the narratives are intensely interesting. No one can rise from 
the perusal of 4 Catharine Clayton * without feeling a higher reverence for character, 
principle, honor, as exhibited in the 4 Clintons,’ and a deeper contempt for the ignorant, 
purse-proud, unprincipled 4 Archers.’ The moral tone and effect of the book is excellent.” 
— N. Y. Recorder . 

44 They have sufficient variety of incident and discrimination in the declination of the 
characters to make us look with interest for future productions of the writer, and are 
marked by a healthy tone, which cannot fail to recommend them to the favorable notice 
of many readers.” — Boston Traveller. 

44 It is full of nature and full of truth; it does not go away from every-day scenes and 
occurrences for its themes or illustrations, but catches up, here a subject, there a picture, 
from the every-day paths of existence, and uses them for good.” — Buffalo Express . 

44 The authoress writes with beauty, naturalness, and often with an elegance of style.. 
The heart of a woman, as well as her intelligence and geniality of temper, is on every 
page we have read.” — Boston Chronicle. 

44 We got our eyes fixed upon some of its pages during the, busy hours of the office, and 
could scarcely refrain from neglecting our business. We have no hesitation in pronounc- 
ing it a volume of more than ordinary interest, and most cordially recommend it to our 
readers.” — K. Y. Atlas. 

44 A ready writer, who understands well how to weave together the threads of a^story in 
order to make it read vivaciously and interesting without losing sight of the instruction 
designed to be imparted.” — South Boston Gazette. 

44 Of the quiet order, not designed to startle or amaze, but to lead the reader to love 
what is pure and right, and of good report among virtuous people. Healthful in tone and 
natural description and sentiment.” — New York Times. 

44 Distinguished for a tone of just sentiment, natural descriptions of society and 
character, and a pure and high moral sentiment.” — N. Y. Tribune. 


15 





























































































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